


Gravedigger's Battle

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Quiet Isle, Psychological Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 89,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been left to die on the side of a hill. Only, he didn't. From Hound to Gravedigger. Gravedigger to Sandor. This story explores what happened after the Battle with Brienne, the Quiet Isle and beyond. Starts in the middle and then backtracks. Sandor/OC fic. No Mary Sues! No Sansa bashing! Plenty of angst and smut. Sweetness and stubbornness too. Just try it! You may be surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The great oaken doors to the bath opened and closed with barely a sound. But he heard. No amount of hot water and burning incense could dampen his senses enough to a point where he could truly relax. Even now, with his body stiff and sore, immersed in the calming waters and his head laying on the edge of a large, sunken stone bath, he was alert to the world around him.

 

 

It was her. Again. He could smell her perfume mixed with sweat and toil, mud and herbs. There was a small rustle of fabric and he let one eye creep open to glance her way. He couldn’t help it. If she was going to insist on bathing in the same room as him and for fucks sake _undress_ in front of him he was damn well going to look. No harm in a peek. He’d timed it wrong though. The shifting of cloth he had heard was merely her struggling to heft that great bag of tonics and salves she took everywhere with her over her head. For a fraction of a second he was disappointed she still had her robe and smallcloths on. Then he realized his disappointment and grew angry with himself, huffing a bit in irritation.

 

 

She looked over at the noise, caught his eye and smiled. She fucking smiled at him. Why did she always seem so damned glad to have his attention? Only the Seven knew and he was too tired to think on it any further. 

 

 

“Is your shoulder well today?” she asked brightly, as he tried not to hear the concern in her voice. This was her duty. She was sworn to heal those in need; not to care about the crumbling structure of a tired, old dog.

 

 

A slight movement from the joint in question and a grunt was his answer. He sat up a bit and swung his arm in a circle to show her that, indeed, his range of motion was coming back. He would never admit it out loud, of course, but the massage techniques she had been using for the past weeks were working.  He could now move his right arm faster and with far less pain since the day they had first allowed him to hold a sword again. As he reached the top of his watery swing a muscle seized and clenched causing him to grimace a bit. She noticed. Her trained eyes always bloody noticed.  

 

 

“Still a bother, eh?” she pressed him for an answer and he shrugged. It wasn’t his place to complain or want or need.  She waited a moment to give him time to reply. When he didn’t, she sighed in that way that said she was irritated but not truly. Dragging her bag behind her, she made her way over from her preferred bath to his in the corner, away from any others who might enter the room.

 

 

“Come on then. Move up a bit,” she instructed, pushing on his back lightly with her foot. He obliged slowly, sitting up farther and moving to the front of the low bench submerged beneath the water. She sat on the ledge behind him, parting her legs just enough to give her the space needed to work on his back.  She rooted through her massive leather satchel for a moment, Gods knew how she kept it all organized, her small hand coming out of its depths clutching a dark amber vile. She deftly opened it one handed and poured some of its contents into her palm.

 

 

The scent of mint and earth filled his nose. As she began gently rubbing her hands over his right shoulder, to warm the muscles up, he had to stifle a groan.  It wasn’t natural to feel this much pleasure from such a simple touch, he scolded himself, while trying to think of anything other than her skilled hands digging further into his backside. He was not successful. As her hands continued their journey over damaged, knotted and tense flesh, his eyelids drooped shut and he inhaled deeply.

 

 

At first these sessions were unwelcome; but even then he couldn’t deny the pleasure in feeling his shoulder pop and crackle and give for the first time in years.  She had insisted they continue and he was too weak to say no, though he had drawn a line at her wanting to rub at his injured leg as well. Her fingers were small but strong and they made quick work of finding all the hidden places of abuse from wielding iron that he had long ago forgotten about. He didn’t know how long she worked. There in the dark, behind his eyelids he found that place that would only claim him when in her presence and he lost all track of time.

 

 

She patted his shoulder to signify she was finished. It had ended too soon. It was always too soon and he was too much of a coward to ask for more.  The Little Bird was wrong. He wasn’t brave now that there were no longer any rats to chase. He opened his eyes and shook his head a bit, trying to clear it. He straightened up on the bench, looking over his shoulder but not meeting her eyes, giving her as warm a grunt as he could manage in thanks.

 

 

She stayed in place behind him which was odd. She would usually rise at this point, perhaps touching his shoulder one last time and excuse herself to her chosen bath. They would not speak much again until the final meal of the day, or even later.  But she didn’t move this time. It was making him nervous and he lifted his eyes to find her chewing her bottom lip, staring at her bag.

 

 

“Spit it out, woman. You’ll chew through it in a moment,” he all but ordered. She was breaking the routine. No good could come of this and he would rather face it head on and deal with it. A soldier through and through.

 

 

She let loose a soft, breezy laugh and let her lip go. “I’d like to try something different,” she started, “but…”  

 

 

He looked at her like she had gone mad. He was beginning to feel the tight squeeze of panic take him. He was naked in a bath. She was in a thin robe and small clothes that were already wet to her knees. What in all Seven Hells could she possibly want to do besides something that he was certainly not at all prepared to deal with now? Of course he had thought about it. Many times over if he was honest about it. But here? Now? In the bath? He wasn’t ready for this. He’d fuck it all up like everything else in his life and, Gods, he just wanted to enjoy this small glimmer of happiness he had found before it was snatched away, to burn to ashes that would choke him.   

 

 

“Don’t look so horrified. I’m not after your maidenhood,” she tried to sound reassuring by using one of her favorite shared jests with him. “But I do need you to trust me.”

 

 

Now she really had gone mad. He was sure of it. Trust her? Didn’t she know by now he’d run a sword through his own fucking dead heart if she demanded it?  He kept his gaze fixed forcibly on the water ahead of him.

 

 

“What would you have me do?” he asked, thanking the Seven that his voice didn’t waver.

 

 

“Just lean back a bit that’s all,” she said softly while tugging on his shoulders and drawing him back between her legs, which were now spread wider than before. She put a hand to his forehead, gently pulling his head back and down. Down, down, down until his unblemished cheek was pressed tight against her leg and his head was cradled between thigh and _there_.

 

Fuck the Maiden and the Mother and the whore Crone as well,he cursed. If he turned his head to the other side he’d be nose deep in her.

 

 

“That’s perfect. Stay still and close your eyes,” she instructed him, a hint of mischief and honest happiness in her voice. He did as she bid, trying to keep his breathing steady and his cock in line. It was already starting to grow hard and whatever it was she had in store he did not want to interrupt it by disgusting her with his own body’s wants. There was a few seconds pause, the sound of trickling water and then warmth spread across his scalp. The same sound, the same warmth and wetness trickling down through his hair. His eyes flew open.

 

 

“Don’t,” she warned, “or you’ll end up with water and oil in your eyes.”

 

 

“The fuck you doing?” he barked, yet closing his eyes all the same.

 

 

She laughed at that and spoke as if she were explaining something very simple to a child. “Washing your hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do it. When was the last time you bothered to do so properly?”

 

 

A life time ago he wanted to say. When I was a flea ridden Hound and forced to put on heirs for an incestuous born king.  But he knew that she knew it had been a long, long time and that she wasn’t seeking a true answer from him.

 

 

“Stay still,” she shushed at him again. 

 

 

There came the sound of her hands digging through her bag, a stopper being forced from a bottle and her hands rubbing together. This bottle smelled of rosemary which mercifully covered up the _other_ scent he had taken note of in this new position. Logically he knew what was coming next but he was still shocked to feel the pads of her fingers twist through his hair to find his scalp. He sucked in a breath and just as quickly exhaled it trying to gain control over his breathing again. His cock lengthened in approval of her actions.

 

 

Above him, her brow crinkled with a bit of worry but she continued at her task.  He didn’t take care of himself properly. She could see it in the way he carried his body when he thought no one was watching. She could hear it in the bark he used to keep others at bay. Could sense it in his breathing now as he struggled to enjoy the comfort she offered. She cared for him deeply and if he wasn’t willing or able to treat himself well than she, by the Seven, was honored to take on the task.  

 

 

Slight, delicate fingers began doing what they had always done before on his back, now on his head and he found it be fucking glorious.  Burnt skin or whole it mattered not to her as she continued to draw tiny circles across his scalp. It was an entirely new sensation to him. To be handled this gently. To be given this comfort. Shown this much mercy. He didn’t deserve it and he had not a bloody clue as to what he should do with the ache and the burn that twisted his guts into gravel. He was suddenly and desperately thankful that they did not share the bathing room with anyone else this evening.

 

 

He was utterly lost as she started to rake her nails through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp and sending goose flesh down his arms. He was confused, horribly and sickeningly so. No one had ever treated him this way and he was left to drift on an endless rolling ocean of feelings he couldn’t even begin to try and pull apart. Lust, sorrow, and joy all battled within him. His body was trapped between wanting to grow rock hard and needing to turn and weep into her skirts.  He wanted her to stop. He never wanted her to stop. It had became too much and his body reacted in the only way it could, sending him into shakes and twitches that he recognized from battle as shock.

 

 

Her hands stopped their ministrations. Something was wrong. His steady, even breaths and the growing hardness of his manhood that she could just make out through the murky water were signs of happiness. But once she had started to scratch at his head, lightly of course, his brow had knotted together in a painful looking way and he had started shaking. His teeth chattered against her thigh and his body tensed. This had gone wrong. It was her fault. He was private and she knew by now he was in some ways green and she’d gone too bloody far. She cursed at herself internally before finding her courage. She had brought him to this. It was her task to call him back.

 

 

“Sandor?” she tried, her voice calm and sure.  She placed a hand to his marred cheek, “Alright?”

 

 

The memory came rushing fast and brutal in his mind.

 

_He was small and the world was so very large. He couldn’t have seen more than 5 name days. His face was still whole. His father had deemed him enough of a man that day to begin helping with the livestock. He was the happiest he could ever remember being in his short life thus far. Today, he would assist in carrying bucket after bucket of feed and water for the cows and horses. As he trotted after his father, down the lane that lead from home to the barns, his too large boots had caught on a root and he had tumbled down._

_Like most of his clothing, the shoes had been Gregor’s once. He wondered if he would ever be as big as Gregor who was a great mountain of a lad even then. His own strength and size didn’t present itself until he was nearly fifteen.  He had actually yearned at that age to one day be able to fill his older brother’s boots. He had been innocent once. Before the flames and the stench of death that no young child should be made to smell coming from their own body._

_The fall was short but painful. He had cut his knee on a rock. It had sliced straight through his breeches and deep into his skin. He bled. He’d never seen that much of his own blood before. Alarmed, he cried out and when the blood didn’t stop he began to shed tears in earnest. His father turned a bit to see what the matter was and, observing him relatively unharmed, tried to stop his bawling in a gruff paternal tone._

_“Up lad,” his father barked, “it’s only a scratch. You wanted a chance at being a man. Men get up.” And father continued on the path to the barns._

_Father didn’t understand. It wasn’t the pain that upset him. It was the blood. His life was slipping out from his knee drop by drop and why wasn’t it stopping! He’d never seen that much blood come out of anyone ever. It wasn’t right was it? And just as he found himself ready to howl in fear, he was aware of soft white hands coming round him. Strong, feminine arms lifted him up and his world smelled of freshly baked bread and spring flowers. Mother had scooped him up and placed him on an old tree stump. She pressed a clean cloth to his knee and used her other hand to wipe away the tears on his face. She was his Mother._

_“Sandor,” she had cooed while running a hand down his cheek, “alright?”_

He sat bolt upright from her lap, taking in great gulps of air as he tried to stop the flood of sensations overtaking him. He had been cared for once. He had been _loved_. And she was close now, giving those same words of comfort and love. She had been giving them to him, silently, all along. Fast as lightening his mind made connections between the memory and all that she had been showing him during the past few months.

 

 

It was one thing for him to care for another. The Little Bird had taught him that the warmth inside hadn’t died many years ago as he had thought. It was small and it was fragile but it was still there, tucked deep and hidden. He had come to peace with the knowledge that there remained a part of him still capable of something other than covering his hands in blood. However, it was quite another thing to realize someone might care for him in return. He startled himself when a quick sob escaped his throat. In trying to stop the first, a second broke free as he lowered his head into his hands.

 

 

She was behind him in an instant. Robe, smallcloths and all were splashing clumsily down into the water. She spread her legs wide and pinned herself between the tub’s wall and his backside.  Her little arms snaked their way under his own and lay to rest on his barrel of a chest. Her finger tips barely grazed one another across his sternum. Her cheek pressed firmly between his shoulder blades and she sat quietly.  He sent a silent blessing to the Gods for her presence. She was calm and still as he continued to try and gain control of himself. Sobs still wracked through his frame every few breathes. She didn’t hum or sing. She didn’t fuss over him and say meaningless trite words and he was so fucking grateful for it that he wept at her understanding. She was serving him best by simply being there to see him through.

 

 

He was making a fool of himself like one of the boy king’s bizarre public shows meant to prove power. He knew it and he grasped one of her hands while taking a deep long breath, using her fingers as a focal point. His breathing was still wet and harsh but he no longer wept, thanks be to the Seven. She gave his hand a squeeze and stayed where she was. Eventually, his breathing returned to normal and he dropped her hand.  

 

 

She let go of his chest and eased back from his body but did not leave him. He swore he could hear her chewing on her lip again. Get it over with, he thought, scold the mongrel for carrying on like a still suckling babe.

 

 

But she did no such thing. Instead, her forehead returned to rest on his back and her lips left a ghost of kiss on his shoulder. “Not used to kindness,” she said and he could feel her breath on his skin. Her tone implied both a statement and a question.  

 

 

“Aye,” he replied back. There was no use in denying it now.  He felt her brow furrow on his back and she let out a troubled sigh.

 

 

“I don’t like that” she stated bluntly and half a smile crept to his face. She was direct and honest just as he was and that was good.  She stretched her neck as far as she could to bring her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “I’m going to change that.”

 

 

“Fuck me!” he shouted both surprised by her oath and intrigued by what exactly it would entail.

 

 

“Not in the bath!” she countered, laughing at her own words. And then she bit him! It was only a small scrape of her teeth to the meat of his shoulder but it made him start in his seat. She wanted to play and he was undoubtedly finished with games.  His now softened cock twitched back to life and decided perhaps it wasn’t done for the evening after all.

 

 

“Girl,” he warned, letting his voice drop and turning the right side of his face towards her, bearing his scars. It was his last feeble attempt at turning her away. He tried to remind her how rough and damaged he truly was.

 

 

 

 

“Boy!” she teased right back still giggling. The look he sent her over his shoulder stopped her laughter. “Oh,” she breathed, her eyebrows rising. “Oh!”

 

 

She waited a few heartbeats before continuing, “Right. Not in the bath. Soon. Is that alright?”

 

 

No, it wasn’t bloody well alright his mind screamed. She had shown him tenderness and something else -not love, can’t be love his mind begged- and now she would stop after she had fucking bit him like an animal? He ground his teeth.

 

 

“When?” he demanded. Oh yes, he was done with games.  

 

 

“Soon,” she said once more and hearing his teeth continue to grind she tried again. “Tonight?” 

 

 

He grunted an affirmation and she quickly rose from the bath not wanting to anger him any further. It hadn’t been her full intent to arouse him. She had meant to distract him with banter and a playful nip but he was too far gone in wanting to take such things lightly.  She saw this now and vowed he would find both kindness and pleasure in her arms.

 

 

She walked quickly back to her side of the room, her clothes streaming water behind her the entire way. She put her bag on a bench and turned to face him. He was still staring at her with hungry eyes. She shivered a bit and began to disrobe. She knew he had watched in the past. He had opened an eye when her back was turned, feigning rest but she knew he looked. They all looked. This time was different. He was not trying to hide the fact that he watched. He wanted her to know he was watching. Usually, she would turn her back to him in a vain attempt at modesty. This time she held his gaze and ignored the fluttering inside her as she let her robe drop to the floor. Her sodden smallclothes were harder to remove but she managed without falling over. She kept her eyes on his as she stepped down into the tub till the water went past her breasts and then she sighed in happy contentment. She didn’t believe that he had blinked the entire time. He hadn’t said a word since asking her when they would fuck. It was starting to unnerve her.

 

 

“Don’t forget to rinse your hair,” she cautioned trying to gain some leverage, “you’ve still got oil in it. I won’t have it making a mess of my sheets.” With that last remark she placed her head against the ledge of the tub, just as she had found him earlier. She heard him sniff his disapproval.

 

 

“You’ll come to me. Don’t need all the fucking household hearing you scream,” he corrected her. She found she had no reply at all and closed her eyes, pointedly ignoring the deep aching warmth that was growing in her belly. Her nipples had gone hard and she was _not_ going to think about how much of her could fit into his hands. The time for that was later. If she gave attention to it now they would never make it out of the bath.

 

 

“And I’ll do as I like in my own sheets.” he groused while she shivered again at his words. But she soon heard splashing as he sunk below the water and her smile grew wider. Tonight he would take and she would willingly give.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He left the bath before she did.  He’d never done that before. He always waited for her to leave first, most likely to get another look at her naked form.  She’d nearly been asleep when he rose from the water, daydreams of him and her coupling in bliss whirling through her mind. She opened one eye in a reversal of roles and took in his bare backside as water poured off of his body when he climbed from the bath. Gods, she swore. The Maiden help her she’d never seen a man built like him. For a moment she recalled a time when he had been bared to her before. But that time was much different. He’d been filthy with his own blood and waste, while he spoke delirious incoherent words in the throws of a hellish fever. He didn’t resemble that man now at all. He stood proud and large and broad. He made his way to his clothing and even with the limp he still had an air of absolute strength about him. She wanted to bite him again and realized, with a shock, that she’d begun to salivate. Like a dog with a choice cut of meat.  She swallowed, embarrassed, before she made a mess of herself.

 

 

He didn’t give her the pleasure of turning to face her as she had done for him earlier. He kept his back to her as he dressed in his breeches and tunic. The plain robes and hood that most of the men of the Isle choose to wear went over top the other garments. Sitting on a bench, he hauled on his boots and then made for the door. He caught her eye just before he exited, giving her a nod and a last knowing look. And that was one of the wonderful things about she and he. They didn’t need words to say what they meant.  

 

 

She dawdled in the bath a bit longer before rising and trying to sort out her still sopping wet clothing. Growing irritated with the twisted smallclothes she finally threw on her robe and synched it tight, praying it wouldn’t fly open on her way back to the woman’s quarters. The bell for the final meal rang and she quickly balled up her smallclothes as tightly as she could and flew up the stairs to the kitchens, out the back door and down the short path to the woman’s cabins.

 

Back in her room, she tossed her damp clothing onto the back of her only chair and dug through her chest for something dry to wear to dinner. Sandor was right, she thought, as she pulled on fresh smallclothes and a plain, dark blue woolen dress. It wouldn’t do to meet here. Though she did have her own private space, there were three other rooms close by housing six women total. She was the only one that currently had her own room as it was deemed important for her, as a healer, to be able to rest when she could and to have space to work and study. The other women bunked two to a room but that would soon change when the babies arrived. Marie was already past due and she’d been making the expecting mother walk and drink raspberry tea every day in an effort to speed the delivery along. Jocelyn still had two or three months until her babe would be born. When that happened there were two other cabins they could all spread out to.  

 

 

And besides, she went back to thinking about him, how would she get him in her room without someone else taking note? He certainly wouldn’t fit through the single small window and the great room of the cabin seemed to always have someone in it reading, sewing or talking. No, his hut was a much safer and discreet option. While their host did not expressly forbid relations between men and women they were most assuredly not encouraged, especially before marriage. _As if Sandor Clegane would ever marry,_ she snorted.  It wasn’t that she deemed him unworthy; rather, she had the distinct impression that a man who had no patience for the vows of knighthood or religion would also hold no interest in the vows of marriage.

 

 

Tossing a shawl around her shoulders and slipping into her evening shoes, she made her way back outside to walk around to the front of the large main building. All of the other women had already left and so she walked quietly and alone for a few minutes.  She could already hear the chaotic noise that was supper as she pulled open the towering front doors of the great hall where meals were shared and council taken. She made her way over to the woman’s table against the far right wall and sat down in the space between Marie and Dea. Again, it wasn’t as if the Elder Brother forbade them to sit with the men but, out of respect for the Brother’s chosen path, the women had decided to eat amongst themselves.

 

 

Sometimes though, when she was feeling unusually brave, she would plunk herself down next to Sandor and talk about her day with him. He didn’t say much back but at least he had eventually stopped looking at her like she’d spit in his stew. Recently, if any of the other men got too cheerful with her he would give them a look that clearly said they could fuck off. Other times, when he had been particularly rude to her during the day, she would walk past his place, grab his cup of wine and take it over to her seat with the other women. He would never come ask for it back; just glare at her for the rest of the meal.  She would raise the cup in salute and drink it all up in one go. She’d stopped doing that after he’d replaced the wine in his cup with vinegar one evening.

 

She served herself some of the duck and boiled potatoes on the table, adding a few carrots and a piece of brown bread to the mix.  Dea started nattering on about the crows in the garden while Marie went over names for the baby for the hundredth time. She pushed her food around her plate not having much of an appetite. She was getting a bit nervous about later that night.  It had been nearly two years since the farmer’s boy had taken her maidenhood. She hadn’t taken another lover since and while she knew her basic ins and outs it _had_ been awhile ago. The opportunity and want had never presented itself to her again since those few summer tumbles.  Not until he arrived.

 

 

What if he wanted a maiden she suddenly thought, her stomach fully locking up on her now. She hadn’t thought of that before. What if he was expecting a blushing green thing still intact?  They’d never spoken of it. They hardly ever discussed anything of a truly private nature. Maybe he didn’t care, she tried to reassure herself. It wasn’t as if he was pure as snow. Why should he expect more of her? But then again, if he wasn’t expecting her to be untried maybe he wanted someone a bit more experienced?  She knew what went where but the poor farmer’s boy had been too excited every time they had coupled to be of much use to her. There had been little time to explore his body and none at all to pay attention to hers before he would spend himself atop her. Crone’s teats, she cursed.  She’d have better luck at feigning the maiden than she would at playing a wench.

 

 

A bit panicked, she sought for his face in the hall. If she could see him, see his eyes, maybe she could tell what he was thinking. There! She spotted him three tables over and a bit to the left. It wasn’t hard to do. He stood a head taller or more than any other man in the room. He didn’t look her way. He was engrossed in his food, shoveling in fistfuls of blackberries and cheese and quaffing down great mouthfuls of ale. He belched and reached for a whole loaf of bread and, Gods, was that an entire chicken carcass in front of him?  No, she corrected herself, there were _two._ What in the Seven Kingdoms was he doing?  He wasn’t known for his table manners but she’d never seen him have at his food like this. She sat transfixed watching him eat like a starved animal. He was eating like he didn’t know when and where his next meal would come from. He ate like the men before the Tourneys she had watched in her youth. They would wolf down enormous amounts of food in preparation for the long day of hard labor that lay before them and oh!  She could feel her face turn bright as a holly berry.  

 

 

Glancing down at her own plate she was keenly aware of the food she’d barely touched. She wasn’t going to keep up with him by eating like a little bird she thought as she began stuffing her mouth with roast duck.  She kept at it until her plate was clean, gulping down a hefty portion of potatoes and nearly choking on a bit of carrot at some point.  She washed it all down with a large glass of dark red wine before looking to him once again. He was staring right at her, a great smile upon his face. She couldn’t recall a time she had seen him smile so true. He raised an eyebrow at her in a decidedly naughty way and saluted her with his mug of ale before polishing off the last dregs.  Then he heaved himself up off of his bench, seized another loaf of bread and went out through the back door of the hall.

 

He stalked out of the great hall, the loaf of bread tucked under his arm. He was feeling well now that he was full of food and sated with ale.  He preferred wine but it was apparently only available to the women this evening which happened from time to time when supplies ran low. No matter, he thought, as he made his way through the kitchens, grabbing a wineskin off a neglected table and continuing on his way. A Clegane knew how to secure what he wanted.

 

 

He stopped at his hut first, tossing the bread and wine onto the table, before making his way to the stables. Brother Pentnook was already there brushing down the mares. Stranger stomped in greeting and he took a moment to scratch at the great beast’s head before continuing over to the feed barrels. It was good that Pentnook was here tonight. They could finish the work in less than an hour together and he could ready his room for her. The horses tucked into their supper as he and Pentnook took their leave of each other.

 

 

Walking back inside his small hut, he grabbed the wineskin first and drank deeply from it before removing his robes and hood. The damned things were itchy and hot but he wore them in thanks to the Brothers and their generosity. The simple clothes did a good job at covering his face as well when the hood was pulled up, which was his wish now. He didn’t need an outsider, a stranger, finding out what really happened to the Hound. Not until he’d regained his full strength and sorted out what exactly the next step in his sorry life was. The anonymity of the cowl was a blessing for the time being.

 

 

He turned, facing the cold stone fireplace. He rarely ever lit it. Better to freeze than face fire. Sometimes he’d invite Pentnook or Merkel in for a drink and suggest that they start it while he poured. Sometimes the Elder Brother would visit and before he could hint at it the devote man would march over to the hearth, setting the kindling ablaze, while mumbling about “starting to get old and chilled” to save him his pride.  He didn’t have much trouble throwing logs at the fire once the flames had caught. It was the beginning that was the problem. Sparks were unruly and you had to get so damned close to them in order to get them going. He always stomped it out before he went to sleep.

 

 

But she had said she would come and the air had begun to take on a chill in the night. Soldier up, he told himself while leaning down into the hearth. The kindling took the flint almost immediately and he sat back on his heels in relief. The fire would warm his hut well for her. And if not he would find other ways to keep her warm. He drank more of the wine finding it half gone already and wished he had grabbed another skin. There wasn’t much else he could do now but wait. The hut had very little in it to begin with so there wasn’t much to set to rights. He’d made the bed this morning and though the sheets should have been washed days ago there was not a thing he could do about it now. With nothing more to occupy his time but the red he found himself starting to doubt.

 

She would come wouldn’t she?  He had watched her plow through her meal like an army marching through turf. It had given him pleasure to see her eat heartily. Aroused him even, to think she was preparing for tonight just as he was. But time had passed from then till now and he still wasn’t sure of himself or her promises. Then again, she wouldn’t just _not_ show up he told himself. That wasn’t like her. No, if she had changed her mind she would be honorable about it and come tell him to his face. His face! He sneered as the wine started to speak to him. That was it then. She would turn him down gently her eyes full of pity and revulsion.  He’d started to grind his teeth again.

 

 

Whores were easier. Pay them a coin, or three in his deformed case, and it was simple from there. They didn’t look at him like he was normal, they didn’t touch him unless told to do so and they never talked so damned much. She was complicated. She wasn’t being paid to smile or touch him and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she continued to do so. In any event, he hadn’t had a woman in  -he started using his fingers to count back past the injury and the time to recover, back past the time with the wolf bitch, back past the night when the Little Bird had plucked out his heart with her choice, back to a night before the Blackwater burned- a year? Could be more. A little twig of a whore had serviced him that night. A man takes care of his needs when he’s not sure how much time he’s got left. That one had been shaken by his face but there were no other slags available at the time so he’d told her to turn round, had taken her from behind and made it as quick as possible, tossing her an extra coin when he was through.   

 

 

A year. It had been a year since he’d had a woman. It was a wonder his cock hadn’t fallen off from disuse.  Did he even remember what a wet cunt felt like anymore? Yes, his mind quickly supplied. The memory was hazy but not gone. Like new doe hide gloves soaked in thick, warmed oil. He wanted it again. He wanted it with her.  She had said she would come and, Gods, he would have her. He’d fuck her seven different ways and send her off with a limp to match his own.

 

 

His breeches had gown tight thinking of cunts and tits and all manner of flesh on a woman. He finished the last of the wine and considered taking himself in hand. If she came to his bed there’d be nothing in the Seven Kingdoms that could make him last and if she didn’t then he’d have taken care of his problem himself. He could acquire some more wine and drink himself into forgetful oblivion. Either way was a win though he new which one he preferred. His hands reached for the laces on his breeches. They were half undone when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He groaned at her timing.

 

 

“The Smith’s Iron Cock!” he cursed. He wished again for more wine. That would help him keep from spilling all over her for a bit. “It’s open” he shouted while quickly tying his laces back up.

 

 

She stepped over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her and all the while keeping one hand behind her back. “I’ve brought you something,” she offered as her hand came out from behind her clutching a swollen wineskin.

 

He decided that she was perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

Once she had finished her meal and listened to the other women long enough to be polite, she had carried her plate to the kitchens as was her habit. In the evenings, she would usually study alone or with the Maester if there was no one to care for in the small cabin set aside for the sick and injured. Sometimes she would visit Sandor in the stables and watch him brush down the horses. He was tender with them and she enjoyed seeing him that way.

 

 

Tonight though, there were no ill to tend to. True sickness rarely visited the Isle and the injuries sustained there were, for the most part, minor.  The Maester was not currently on the Isle, having gone on a supply run just yesterday with a few of the novice Brothers. Though Maester Ulchard had promised her father he would watch over her at all times, he now felt safe with leaving her in the care of the Brother’s for a short while. The fact that the Maester had recently called upon Sandor in his hut, for reasons unknown to her, may have also had something to do with the change in the old scholar’s heart.  

 

 

She felt visiting the stables would only be a distraction to both herself and Sandor so she decided to let the man work in peace. She found herself helping Alva, the bakestress, prepare the next day’s bread. While kneading and flouring under the older woman’s instruction, she spotted a table set back with a small pile of wineskins setting on top of it. She knew they been set aside for the woman to partake in at dinner, while the men did with ale, since new stores would not arrive for another week or so. She also knew Sandor enjoyed wine much more than the pale golden ale the Brother’s brewed.  She bit her lip. Did she dare?  It wasn’t in her nature to steal but it _was_ for the women and she was a woman. If she took her fair share and then gifted it to him that was alright wasn’t it? 

 

 

She’d been at her work for an hour and the bread was finally tucked neatly inside the ovens. She wiped her hands on the apron she’d been lent, removed it and reached for her shawl. The bakestress was still fussing over some dough that had refused to rise and she decided to act on her impulse.

 

 

“Alva, the bread!” she yelled in fright, pointing to the ovens and feigning a look of shock. The older woman took off in a flash across the kitchens to check on the progress of the loaves. She quickly grabbed the fattest wineskin she could see and tucked it under her shawl. She silently promised the Mother and the Father she wouldn’t touch any wine on the table for a week.

 

 

“There’s not a thing wrong with it child,” the bakestress replied.

 

 

“Sorry,” she muttered, “I was certain I smelled burning bread.”

 

 

“Daft healer!” the woman scolded with not much venom in her voice, “Move on. You’ve done enough this evening.”  The older woman grinned at her as she fled from the kitchen. 

 

 

Alva smiled to herself as the younger woman tore out the back door whilst trying to hide a large lump in her shawl. Her ageing eyes were still clear enough to detect the slightly off kilter look to the pile of wineskins. It was known all over the small Isle that the Hound and Healer were pleasant with each other. And everyone knew of the Hound’s love for the red. Perhaps they’re finally done circling one another she mused. How she missed being young!

 

 

Idla ran straight to her room, bolting the door and laying her plunder on the bed. She felt bold and alive from her small act of defiance.  If this is what it felt to do something wrong that was ultimately for a better good than no wonder Sandor took pleasure in fighting and hacking and gore so much.  She grinned again at her boldness while rummaging through her bag of healer’s stock. She’d need more bruise unguent soon and she’d used the last of her rosemary oil on Sandor’s hair earlier. There should still be some dried comfrey and rosemary left in the Maester’s stores she could use to make both on the morrow.

 

 

Nearly two hours had passed since the final meal had finished and it was a little past ten by her estimation. The time had come. She combed her hair out and her nimble fingers quickly plaited it back up again. She attended to a few more toiletries and then threw her shawl back over her shoulders and snatched up the skin of wine. She made her way through the great room of the cabin and was pleased to see that only Jocelyn and Tallie occupied it. Jocelyn was in a chair near the fire mending a shirt and she walked over quietly to the small framed woman.  She trusted her most out of all the other women. Jocelyn knew what it was like to hold secrets.

 

 

She leaned down close to Jocelyn so Tallie couldn’t hear and whispered, “I need you to keep a secret for me.”

 

 

The young girl looked up at her with an understanding she shouldn’t have had to learn at her age, nodding and absently rubbing a hand to her swollen belly.

 

 

“I’m going to go visit Sandor. Alone.”

 

 

The girl’s eyes widen but she remained silent.

 

 

“I may not be back until morning.”

 

 

Now the young girl smiled and brought a hand to her mouth to stop from giggling out loud.

 

 

 

“If anyone should come looking for me tell them I’m sick in the privy off of bad meat and come get me at his hut, agreed?” she implored.

 

 

“Agreed,” Jocelyn answered.

 

 

She smiled at the girl and kissed her on the forehead. Jocelyn was a sweet little thing and didn’t deserve the brutality that had been thrust upon her. But she was also strong and had made a fresh start for herself here on the Quiet Isle.

 

 

She left the woman’s quarters and walked past the gardens and stables to the small hut set back between the livestock’s field and the graveyard. She knocked soundly on the wooden door, heard him mutter a muffled curse and then he bid her to enter.  She stepped over the threshold and offered her prize to him.

 

 

Her intent was to see him smile again. Perhaps he would even thank her out loud instead of grunting at her _._  What she didn’t expect, what she could have never expected, was that he would look at her like she was the Mother herself before taking three giant strides towards her. His gait was strong with purpose and she saw little sign of his limp as he made his way to her. He grabbed the wineskin from her hand, growling as he flung it at the table, then he bent low and kissed her. _Hard_. His hands clutched at her dress near her waist as his mouth connected solidly with hers.  He pushed at her mouth and licked at her lips and started to nip when she didn’t open to him.

 

 

She had forgotten to breathe. He had moved fast and firm. She was taken aback and tried to pull herself up out of her shocked stupor to kiss him back.  He lapped and bit at her lips.  She realized he was getting irritated with her lack of response. She was sorry for it and immediately opened her mouth to him. He’d surprised her was all and she sucked at his bottom lip in apology. He growled again, taking full advantage of her new found courage, circling her tongue with his own. She’d never been kissed like this before.   

 

 

Sweet fucking Hells, was all his mind supplied when her lips finally parted for him. Her lips were soft, delicate and warm. She tasted like sugary almond cakes. It occurred to him she must have some oil she’d used on her mouth before she had come to him. It made his cock all the harder. She’d brought wine as well. Most likely she had stolen it from the kitchens as he had done earlier. She’d not turned him away. She had come to him with no looks of pity and she’d stolen wine for him. It was a frightful thought indeed to realize she understood him so well. He pushed it aside and went back to claiming her mouth. She suckled his bottom lip once again and then shifted a bit to start planting kisses into his beard and down lower onto his neck.  He used one hand to grab at a breast and the other to knead at her arse.  She pressed gently on his chest with her hands, trying to step back from him.  

 

 

“Fuck that!” he barked and pulled her tight against him again.

 

 

“But I brought wine” she tried. He was moving so _fast._

 

“Fuck the wine,” he stormed, moving to kiss her again. 

 

 

She laughed into his mouth.  “Don’t you know any other words?”

 

 

“Fuck no!” he replied and pulled at the ties on the front of her dress, “Off. Now.”

 

 

He’d completely given up on pacing himself.  She seemed willing enough. He was going to fuck her before she had a chance to change her mind. He’d ride her fast now and slow later on.

 

 

She stepped back to give enough room for her hands to work and started to undo the stays on her dress. He pulled off his own shirt while watching her. She dropped her dress to the floor and slipped out of her shoes, standing now in only her smallclothes. He stared. She stared. Handsome wasn’t the right word to describe him she thought.  Solid, true, and beautiful felt right to her mind. She wanted to tell him but knew he’d scoff at the first two and call her a liar for the last one. Half his face was a ruin, yes, but it was a precious sight to her all the same. His eyes were her favorite feature.  Gray like the mists of the morning. His chest was broad with plenty of hair that trailed all the way down his stomach and farther into his breeches. Breeches that were, quite noticeably, full. She sucked in a breath.

 

 

He looked her over while she stared right back at him. Something was wrong with her head. He was sure of it. She looked at him like she wanted him. Standing there in her spotless white smallclothes, trimmed with ribbon and lace, a thought struck him.  

 

 

“You a maiden?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t. He didn’t have a damned clue how he was going to get through this with a girl not yet broken. He wasn’t good at being gentle and he’d never be able to make her first time pleasurable. He may have to _explain_ things to her. He shuddered in horror at the thought.

 

 

“No,” she said faintly, a look of worry crossing her features.

 

 

“Good,” he stated and he meant it.

 

 

She looked a bit more relived at that, smiling up at him as he drew close to her once again.  He’d done something right, thank the Seven, for she’d slipped her arms between them and had started to work on the laces of her smallclothes.

 

 

“Stop,” she heard him say placing his hands on hers, “Want to do it on my own”. 

 

 

She imagined he would strip her now and take her on the bed, but he surprised her once more when he dropped to his knees and began kissing her hips that were still covered in linen. When kneeling, he came nearly to the bottom of her breasts.  At this height she was able to grasp at his head while he continued to use his mouth on her. He stroked her body up and down with his hands as he worked her with his lips and she was soon moaning in delight. He put his hands on her hips, pushing slightly, bidding her to turn around. He gave as much attention to her back side as he had to her front.  Her hands had nothing to occupy themselves now as he rubbed down her thighs and bottom so she slid them up her body and started to press on her own breasts, pinching her nipples and gasping in bliss. He stopped. She stopped. She looked down at the floor, embarrassed by her heathen act.  

 

 

“And where did you learn to do that?” he rumbled.

 

 

She chewed at her lip in answer.

 

 

“Spit it out, woman” he chided, “You’ve never had a problem speaking your mind before. Don’t stop now.”

 

 

She turned around to look down at him. “The boy I was with before you . . .,” she started gauging his reaction. He nodded at her to continue. “He didn’t do much right but I did learn that I like them pinched.”

 

 

“Did the boy bring you pleasure?”

 

 

She sighed. She’d wanted him to go a bit slower but not like this. “It wasn’t unpleasant but it wasn’t as good as when I touch myself to bring pleasure” she finally answered.

 

 

“Fuck, woman!” he shouted and was back on his feet in an instant, clawing at her smallclothes till he’d half ripped them off of her. She helped remove the tatters that remained as he backed her up to the edge of the bed.  He didn’t take much time to look at her bared before pushing her down. She sat and found herself face to cock with him. He was large. Even through the breeches she could tell that part of him was just as full and thick as the rest of him. She licked her lips.  She reached for the ties of his breeches and looked up into his face.

 

 

“Go on,” he told her, a very faint smile crawling onto his face.

 

 

She took a deep breath and continued at her task, tugging at his breeches until they fell to the floor to join her dress. _Gods, he was thick!_   Not quite as long as she had first imagined but she swore he must be as wide as her wrist. The maiden help her he’d tear her apart!

 

 

She’d stared at him too long. “Either do something with it or lie back,” was his order to her.  Make demands of her would he? She’d “do something with it” then. She enclosed his manhood with both hands and pulled at him. She could barely get her fingers to touch around the girth of him. He grunted and gasped and then, sweet Mother, he moaned like she had. She’d never heard him make noises like that. She’d already begun to grow wet when he had kissed her but by now she was sure there was a flood to challenge The Narrow Sea between her legs. She felt hot and swollen there and wanted him to touch her.

 

 

She pushed herself back to the head of the bed, keeping one hand on his cock to drag him down with her. He towered above her and shifted most of his weight to his good leg. He sucked at a nipple and she writhed at the touch, gripping and kneading his shoulders. He trailed one hand down between their bodies and, _oooh_ , he began rubbing at her folds with his fingers. They were rough but the calluses and scars added textures to the act that left her begging him to continue. A deep rumble came from his chest as he pushed a finger up into her.

 

 

Gods, she was wet. She was dripping down his wrist and there was not a drop of spit or oil in the mix. It was all her and she was slippery as a damned fucking eel for him. Because of him, he thought with pride. Her little moans and gasps had turned to whimpering and begging. He thought he might spill himself at the sound and feel of her. He wanted to stop and take her but her breathing was rapid and she was bucking up into his hand now, impaling herself with his finger and he knew she was close. He could spare her a minute more. He stuffed two digits up into her and bit her nipple sharply, feeling her tighten around his fingers. She screamed out his name and tore at his hair and he loved every bloody second of it, twisting his fingers inside her to draw out her end.

 

She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She felt like the sun; warm, full of light and radiant. He’d pleasured her before he took his fill and he had been damned good at it as well. He was magnificent. She was grinning, she knew, as she opened her eyes to look at him when she felt his fingers withdraw from her.  He was at full attention, heaving and pressing his swollen cock at her entrance.  She shifted a bit to accommodate him and when he found her opening he rammed inside her with a single, swift thrust. She nearly screamed again but bit her tongue to keep from doing so. She held her breath and shut her eyes tight again. It wasn’t painful; she was just so unforgivably full of him. She thought if he moved she’d split wide open.  He’d noticed the change and froze above her, all his muscles quivering while he waited for her to adjust to the size of him.

 

 

“Thought you said you weren’t a maiden,” he panted, trying to fight his body’s need to thrust unrelenting up into her.

 

 

“I’m not,” she promised, pulling his face down to hers, “but I never said I wasn’t built to hold your cock tight.” His foul sayings had clearly made an impression on her. She kissed him as he cursed into her mouth.

 

 

He did move then, a fast, hard pace that had them both sweating and slick within minutes. She tried to kiss him again but he moved his head to her shoulder, keeping his scars from her, and began grunting into the crook of her neck as he labored.  She matched his thrusts as best she could. They were new lovers and she did not yet know what pleased him best. She remembered something the boy had done and smacked at his shoulder till he lifted his weight off of it. She wriggled a leg free, hooking it up over his shoulder and, by the Gods, he roared and rode her with a fury.  His entire body tensed for a moment before pounding back into her with sharp jerks and spasms as he let out great shuddering breathes into her ear. She lost count of the number of Gods he had cursed while he spent himself inside her.  He collapsed on top of her, trembling and still trusting weakly into her every few moments with his softening cock.  She bore his weight, kissing his temple and running her fingers through his hair. He shook once more and rolled off of her to lie on his back, the unmarred side of his face nearest to her. She was sad to feel him leave that special space inside her.

 

 

She moved to her side, close to his body and touched her forehead to his arm. He lifted it high, making room for her to curl up next to him and she almost cried. It was the most welcoming, kind gesture he had ever shown her. To invite him into his personal space after such an intimate act.  She pressed her body to his, laying her head on his chest to listen to his heart. His arm came back down to hold her to him, his hand resting in her hair. She was warm and safe. She was sure something significant had taken place today.  Not just for him or her but for _them_. Between the bath and his bed she’d done something of merit and, finally, she felt accepted by him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I feel there’s another chapter yet to go before this bit of the story comes to a natural pause. The night’s not over for these two yet!
> 
> After that there’s going to be a bit of a break in updating. Two weeks I think at max. I need to go back and work on the beginning of this tale. I’ve got the major details sorted out but I’m not sure if I’m going to start a completely new story or leave this one as it is and work on the past in a series of flashbacks/dreams. I think I could make either scenario work rather well. Any opinions on the matter are welcome. 
> 
>  
> 
> There’s plenty more to come after I’ve sorted the start out. These two keep throwing ideas at me all day long. Sansa will show up for sure, Brianne as well. The events happening now are a little before Brianne goes to the Quiet Isle in the novels. Probably many more characters by the time it’s all said and done. 
> 
> My biggest hurdle right now is coming up with a title. The Brutality of Bath Time is just silly to me and was never meant to be a permanent title. Everything I come up with sounds cheesy so if you’ve got an idea I will be sure to recognize you. Heck, I’ll even name Jocelyn’s baby after you!


	4. Chapter 4

What the fuck had happened? He was mystified. He was comfortable, satisfied by release and she was still there, coiled up next to him with her head on his heart. His fingers absently pulled at the hair that had come loose from her braid. He’d found the most blissful release in the arms of a woman who had, for some crazed reason, wanted him to do so. If he still held any doubt at her words, her actions couldn’t hide the truth from him. He had felt her wet heat and heard his name on her tongue when she’d found her completion. He’d been thoroughly spent after finding his own and had fallen on top of her, unable to bear his own weight any longer. She had held him, kissing him tenderly and touching him until he had managed to move again. 

 

And now here they were. Quiet and still as the fire crackled, casting wavering shadows across their bodies. She’d begun to hum and run her fingers lazily through the hair on his chest and he felt something inside him shift. Maybe this would work out after all. Maybe they could be something to each other and it wouldn’t end in disaster. Maybe. 

 

She stopped her actions and moved her head to place her chin on his chest, looking up at him with a glowing smile. “Are you happy?” she asked. 

 

He stared back at her, trouble filling his eyes. Happy? Happy was for children and virgins and dense as fuck little shits. He had precious few memories he could draw on that might be considered happy and all of them had eventually been tainted by anger, disappointment, and death. He found he couldn’t speak because he simply didn’t know the answer.

 

He’d taken too long to reply and she could see the wary confusion in his eyes with just a twinge of annoyance. She knew little of his past but the way he looked now only confirmed what she already had suspected. He’d been doled out too much sorrow and far too little happiness in life. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled and started anew, “I meant are you content?” Surely, he could manage that, she thought. 

 

He paused again, but only shortly and then nodded his head. “Aye,” he said gently, sitting up a bit, kissing her hair once and patting her arm somewhat awkwardly. 

 

She smiled fondly and bit her cheek to stop a chuckle. He was adorable and she’d probably get a half hearted slap to the back of her head if she let on to her thoughts. Now that they weren’t gnawing and grinding against each other naked or bickering and goading each other on he was slightly clumsy and shy. She wondered, not for the first time, if he’d ever had a woman to truly call his own, and not just one paid to pretend to be for a time. 

 

“Well, I’m happy,” she insisted, ignoring his scoff, “Laugh all you want. You don’t get to tell me what makes me happy.” 

 

She was stubborn and knew her mind well. She was like him and that was good, he found himself thinking for the second time that day. He was appalled to feel a lump form in his throat. He sat up fully, detangling himself from her and moved off the bed. She gave him a pout.

 

“Thirsty,” he said in way of explanation. He didn’t wish to hurt her; he only needed a chance to breath. He grabbed the cast aside wineskin and gulped down a few mouthfuls. That was better. He turned and silently offered her the bread.

 

“Gods no!” she cried, laughing and clutching at her belly, “I don’t think I’ll need to eat for days. Never let me try and keep pace at the table with you ever again!”

 

He couldn’t stop the laughter that followed her remark. She loved the sound of it and had been learning how to draw it from him with more frequent ease. It was a true laugh, rich and thick like the sap buried deep within ancient, unyielding trees. She was learning how to pull back the bark and tap straight into it. 

 

He threw the bread back on the table and offered her the wine instead, which she accepted eagerly. She pulled down the furs on the bed, using one to cover herself while she took small sips from the skin. While she enjoyed the red, he shuffled over to a small table which held a basin and pitcher. She noticed his limp was more pronounced and the healer in her spoke up, scolding herself for letting him abuse the still healing limb. She could have offered to ride on top but she’d been so caught up in the moment that anything other than what he wanted had completely left her mind. She’d take better care now and see that he not over use it anymore this evening. It would be a dreadful task to try and explain to the Elder Brother why exactly her patient had taken a turn in his recovery. 

 

He poured water in the basin and used a cloth to clean himself. When he was finished, he rinsed the cloth and handed it to her, taking back the skin. He sat at the end of the bed, facing the fire, giving her a bit of privacy so she could clean herself as well. 

 

It was a thoughtful gesture, seeing to her needs and letting her keep some modesty around the after effects of their love making. It had been awfully sticky by the end. She knew kindness didn’t come easily to him and it made her care for him all the more. He wasn’t like any other man she had known and yet, at times, he could be a patched together collection of the best she had witnessed in mankind. You just had to look at him right. Like the starry sky viewed through spun glass. Just because the image was warped and blurred didn’t make the object itself any less beautiful. 

 

He gazed at the fire, listening to the bedclothes rustle and the rub of cloth on skin. He wanted to turn and watch her remove his seed from her body. He was fairly certain he would never grow tired of seeing her naked. But it also seemed too intimate a gesture and so he kept his back turned. She probably didn’t want an old lecher peering at her while she tidied herself anyway he reasoned. He could be polite; he just rarely found the motivation to do so. But she was so close and completely bared and he was almost convinced that if he tried to couple with her again, and again and again, she’d allow it. 

 

He had only owned the coin a few times in his life to lie with a woman completely free of any clothing for a time. He’d take himself in hand before putting his cock in a copper slag and the blasted whores at Littlefinger’s establishment charged more for everything. More time. More skin. More touch. Removal of clothing was a double charge for more time and skin. And they always, without fail, charged two or three times the going rate in compensation for his “condition”. His Kingsguard status seemed to hold little value in the brothels when paired with his face. 

 

The Lannisters may have given him an allowance during his time in their service, but he was far from wealthy and he’d be damned if he would ever ask his cunt of a brother for any coin from the estate. Unless he had some extra dragons from a Tourney in his pocket, it was skirts up and cock out for him, against a wall or with his paid companion bent over a piece of furniture while he took her from behind. 

 

Half the time it was coin wasted. The pleasure dried up in the presence of disgusted looks, fear, and the bickering he could hear amongst them about whose turn it was to service the dog. In his youth lust had gotten him over the forced smiles and back handed compliments. As he got older the kicks to his dignity were no longer worth the payoff. It seemed the more he tried to get out of it the less he actually got. But now he had a woman, a good woman, stark naked in his bed, sharing a skin of wine with him and what in Seven Hells was he doing looking at fucking fire of all things for? Fuck being polite. If she didn’t want him watching she could bloody well say so. 

 

He turned to observe her dabbing at her inner thighs and a wave of possessive pride washed over him. She looked up and blushed prettily for him before crawling up to the end of the bed with him, tossing the rag into the basin. She pressed her breasts right up against his back and reached over his shoulders to snatch the wine from him in what she thought was stealth. He let her have it. 

 

“And what now?” she questioned, near his shoulder. “Drink or sleep or . . .” she trailed off giggling. He never much cared for giggling women but he found her nervous laugh amusing. He was pleased she was experienced enough to not go screaming off into the night at the sight of his cock, yet still maiden enough to blush. He found he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her first two suggestions. 

 

A sudden urge took him and he turned to her swiftly, grabbing her around the waist and swinging her around till she’d landed in his lap. She shrieked in surprise but then lost herself to a fit of laughter. She’d dropped the wineskin in the tumble and it sat on the floor spilling its last remaining drops. Her now empty arms encircled his neck and she began trailing kisses up towards his good ear where she started to nibble and lick. He moaned his approval while his cock, still a bit sleepy and recovering, started to respond slowly. She kept at her task for several minutes then moved to the other side of his face to give the same attention to his ruined ear. At the first brush of her lips to his skin he jerked away suddenly. He was willing to accept that she found him tolerable. He couldn’t fathom the idea of her wanting to get close to his scars. She looked at him with serious eyes, puzzled by his abrupt urge to move away from her. 

 

Her fingers moved to his chest, drumming a pattern while she spoke. “You are pleased aren’t you?” she asked hesitantly, looking down to her lap, “With me that is?” 

 

Ah, there was the problem! He’d been too free with talk of whores in the past and now she thought he was great slag of a man himself and she not enough for him. She thought his resistance was her fault somehow and not his own. She was a fool sometimes. 

 

He clutched her face in one hand and, perhaps a bit too roughly, made her look up into his eyes. This was important for her to understand and he needed to make sure she was listening. He wasn’t used to repeating himself. 

 

“I’ll only say it once so you had better pay attention.” She nodded her head, eyes wide and he continued, “Never had a woman by any name but Sally. They’re all liars and not worth talking about. Never had a woman knocking at my door at night, bringing me wine and pleasure and I won’t forget it either. So stop your doubting, woman. It will get old fast. It pleases me to have you here.” 

 

He gestured at the markings covering half his face. “This . . .” he growled pointedly, his features taking on anger, “This is not something you have to do. Leave it be. I don’t want anymore lies.”

 

She was stunned. It was the most he’d said at one time to her in weeks. It was as close to a confession of affection that she would ever be able to drag out of him. And on top of it all he thought his face undesirable to her. She felt tears gather at the corners of her eyes. He rolled his eyes at the sight of her sniffling. 

 

“Don’t start with that!” he chastised. He knew she wasn’t sad or angry but he was uncomfortable that his words would move her so. Not knowing how else to deal with her tears, he laid his hands on her and kissed her lips. It worked. She soon swiped at her eyes and then kissed him back. She knew what she needed to do now. 

 

Shifting in his lap, she leaned forward and urged him to lie down on the bed. She moved off of him and pushed at his legs, leading him to bring them onto the bed as well. She quickly positioned herself high on his hips, straddling him so that he was pinned down. Of course he could easily move her if he wanted but she was hoping he would allow her to show him just how much she truly wanted all of him. 

 

She started with his hands, lacing her fingers through his and stroking the palms with her thumbs. Scars from where she had stitched up some of his past wounds were felt by her as she continued to slowly rub. He gave her fingers a slight squeeze and she bent down, taking one hand out of his and replacing it with her lips. Kissing the pads of each finger she then nuzzled his palm with her cheek before moving to do the same to the other hand. 

 

Arms and shoulders received a similar treatment. Her hands smoothed over his muscles before her lips replaced them, kissing and tasting her way across his skin. She moved onto his chest, scratching her nails on him from sternum to stomach and back again. He trembled and twitched under her. She worked her lips down through the thick hair to find a nipple and bit gently at it with her teeth. He hissed out a breath and she smiled to herself. She licked and suckled at both in turn until she felt him start to move beneath her and bring his hands to her back. She could feel his engorged length nudge at her and knew what he wanted. She would have him soon but she wasn’t finished yet. 

 

She sat up, grabbed one of his hands again and met his gaze, her eyes full of understanding and love. “I won’t ever lie to you. I never have and I never will. If you believe one thing I say, believe that.” And she lowered her body to start again on his face. 

 

She began with the good side, marking his temple with her lips and he immediately shut his eyes. Fine, she thought. He didn’t have to watch but he needed to feel this and try to accept. She moved down the line of his jaw, across his chin and over to the scarred side, treating the jaw and temple there with just as much tender care. He had been holding his breath but let it all out hurriedly as she removed her lips and cupped his cheek with her hand. 

 

“Can you feel this?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d never learn to please him if she didn’t even know what sensations he was capable of feeling there. He kept his eyes shut tight and wouldn’t answer her. His hands were clenched at her hips, his nails digging into her flesh. 

 

She was patient and continued to stroke his check until he gasped, “No. Pressure and warmth. That’s all.” His voice was tight and had cracked at the end. She was walking a dangerously thin line. She knew he could resort to his usual cloak of anger at any moment but she needed to push him this time, she was sure of it. She would help him win this battle. 

 

She kissed him on the jaw with purposeful pressure. “And that?” she queried.

 

He shook his head in the negative. “The same.”

 

She brought her mouth close to what was left of his ear and whispered, “I won’t lie to you. Not ever. All of your flesh is precious to me.”

 

He was biting his lip now much like she did when she was nervous or upset. His eyes were still firmly held shut and he groped blindly to find one of her hands. He pulled her fingers up to his hairline, far up on his scalp where the burns faded to brown hair and moved her fingers across the space with his own hand.

 

“I feel more here,” he cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady as he moved her fingers to his neck near where his beard started, “And here.” His hand was shaking and he was so damned ashamed but no one had ever touched him here of their own volition, except for the Maesters long ago and all those memories held for him was torturous pain. There was no pain where her fingers roamed now. He was not going to let this opportunity pass him by. She was somehow not affected by his image. It was insanity. She was insane. She was his insanity and he would gladly go mad if she would continue to touch him as he instructed. 

 

She pulled her hand out of his own. Sliding her fingers where he had shown her, she added a little more pressure to make sure he felt her. She worked silently but with purpose, willing him to feel her love for him. When had things shifted to love, she asked herself. Weeks ago, was the reply. She just hadn’t been able to put words to her feelings until this evening. 

 

She placed her hand back inside of his. “Anywhere else?” she questioned softly. 

 

This time he brought her fingers to his missing brow and then over to the remnants of his ear. “I can feel a lot here. Don’t know why. Doesn’t make any bloody sense-,” he began to ramble and was swiftly left speechless when her lips met with the object in question. 

 

She kissed and licked and used her teeth on him there, the most sensitive place on his disaster of a face. Like their time in the bath, he had reached a point where her attentions were sending him over the edge. He didn’t break down and sob as he had earlier but he could feel a few hot tears leak from his eyes. She seemed not to care, lapping them up from his skin before returning to his ear.

 

“I’ll never lie to you,” she said again and, the Seven help him, he believed her. 

 

She slid her body along his chest and found him still alert and ready. Lifting herself, she sank down onto him, slowly filling her woman’s space. And, Gods, he whimpered. She felt her muscles tighten around him and his eyes sprang open to find hers. She could see the shiny residue of tears still left in his eyes. She rolled her hips slowly and they both gasped. She felt her eyes close as the bulk of him began to hit a spot within in her that made her shudder and cry out. 

 

He watched her move. Slow but with intention she rode him. He wanted to thrust but let her do as she pleased. He’d never seen a woman like this before, coming undone on top of him. Her eyes shut in ecstasy and her brow pinched just a bit in concentration. She moved her hips in a circle and her eyebrows rose while she started to mewl little cries of pleasure. It wasn’t at all like the shows he’d been given at the brothels. Even the best of them couldn’t match the real thing unfolding before his eyes. He moved his hands to her hips feeling the bones beneath shift and roll. Her hands found his and as she began to move more forcefully she squeezed them tight and hard. 

 

He moved his hands to her breasts and began to knead them causing her to moan and move faster. Her hands lay on his wrists, feeling the muscles move as they held her. They were both pleased to find she could fill his hands neatly, a small amount of flesh escaping between each of his fingers. 

 

He was close now, her inner muscles clenching and working him to a point where he was no longer sure he could let her do as she liked. He brought his thumb down into her folds and found a swollen little nub he knew brought intense lust upon a woman. He flicked at it mercilessly and she screamed. She kept rolling her hips and gasping and then he saw her fly apart. Rapture and pain seemed to pass over her face at the exact same time while her walls fluttered around his cock. He couldn’t hold back any longer and cried out his passion, thrusting up into her frantically while his seed spilled from his body. 

 

She fell onto his chest and it was his turn to hold her while they both basked in the aftershocks of their coupling. Her walls still tugged at him every few heartbeats causing him to shudder and twitch within her. She recovered first it seemed, as she drew her face up to kiss him. 

 

“We’re getting rather good at that,” she said cheekily and he gave her a rumble in his chest in reply. 

 

She moved off of him and curled up at his side as she had done earlier. She was so tired, the wine and love doing their best to lull her to sleep. Her eyelids began to drop shut and she was aware of him placing a fur over top of them. After that she knew nothing but darkness and peace. 

 

She awoke in the morning surrounded by his arms, warm and protected and sticky again. Her hair was loose. He had pulled it free of the braid during their third time coupling. She had slept for a time, moving to her side and awoke from a blissful dream to find him pressed to her back, undoing her braid and seeking out her entrance once again. She’d allowed him to enter her from behind, one of his hands at her breast while he leisurely took her. Both of them hazy with sleep but needing to feel close once again. 

 

Now it was dawn and she’d need another bath before starting her day. She’d need moon tea as well and so she reluctantly started to remove herself from his embrace. His response was swift, pulling her back immediately and holding her fast to his body. 

 

“Where you running off to?” he mumbled into her hair. 

 

“The sun is rising,” she told him. “I need to get back before everyone notices I’m gone. I have chores that need done and I need a bath and moon tea first.”

 

“Leave it,” was all he said and then he snored. Had he gone back to sleep?

 

She rolled her eyes and moved to turn over and face him. He huffed and grunted in disagreement, opening his eyes to look at her. She decided teasing would work best if she was ever going to make it out of his hut.

 

“Leave it?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. “You don’t want me to go make tea? You’re ready for a wedding then?”

 

She burst out laughing at the look on his face. He looked panicked and horror struck but then he too laughed when he realized she was teasing. 

 

“No, no wedding today, woman,” he agreed while pushing her away from him. “Get on then. . .” he trailed off a bit of sadness in his eyes. She knew what he wanted to ask but didn’t dare in case she answered negatively. 

 

She pulled at her hair, trying to brush it with her fingers and failing spectacularly. “When I come back I’ll need to bring a comb if you’re going to insist on taking my hair down” she told him. 

 

His eyes brightened. She’d said “when” not “if”. He continued to watch her through half closed eyes while she started to dress. He chuckled when he saw her give the rags that remained of her smallclothes a disgusted look. 

 

“Don’t laugh!” she stomped her foot, “You haven’t got two hours of mending ahead of you! I should make you do it.”

 

He howled with laughter at that. Mend her smallclothes? The very idea was hysterical to him. She blew her hair out of her face and slipped on her dress, casting him irritated looks while he continued to laugh. When she was finally done she approached the bed to lean down and kiss him.

 

“You are an aggravating man,” she breathed between kisses.

 

“Aye” he agreed. 

 

“Don’t ever change that,” she cautioned while biting his lip. She kissed him deeply and then rose to take her leave of him. She bundled up her small clothes into her shawl, which caused him to smile again and then she was gone. 

 

He got up from the bed an hour later. He was loath to leave the place where so much had happened in such a short time. He scrubbed at his face with some water and dressed hastily as he heard the bells ring for morning services and the first meal of the day. He missed her already but the time apart gave them each time to think on the events that had brought them both here, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note – Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated. I don’t own anything GOT related. 
> 
> The only thing of note I really would like to stress is that while researching what may have been a typical allowance or salary for Sandor I kept running into a lot of comments that stated he would have some money coming in from the family estate if Gregor allowed it. And that didn’t seem right at all. One, Gregor wouldn’t share. Duh. And two, Sandor would never accept anything from him under any circumstances. Ever. So, no, I don’t think he has any money coming to him from that avenue. In my brain, he had a small allowance from the Lannisters for maintaining his gear with a bit left over for drinking and whoring so he would be minimally satisfied and continue to do a decent job. Tourney winnings were used to splurge on better quality wine and women. And possibly losing horribly at some gambling game I have yet to decide on, because I have this urge to have him be terrible at something you’d think he’d have skill in. Obviously, he’s skint broke at this time in the story.
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> I’ve decided I’m going to leave this story as it is and plow forward. I will write about past events by using flashbacks, thoughts and dreams. The next 2-4 chapters will be set in the past? Expect a delay at this point before another update. Lots of research to do to get it right. Hopefully just a 7-10 day pause. Two weeks at max. 
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> Anyone come up with a better title? I haven’t so it’s staying as is.
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> The past four chapters have been heavily influenced by two songs: 
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> Do I Wanna Know by The Arctic Monkeys – Pretty much the entire song but particularly “The nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day”and “I’m constantly on the cusp of to trying kiss you”.
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> Recovery by Frank Taylor - “If you could just give me a sign, just a subtle little glimmer, some suggestion that you’d have me if I could only make me better. Then I’d stand a little stronger as I walk a little taller all the time”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7 to 10 days. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. This chapter is brought to you by hormonal induced insomnia. 
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> I had to watch the end of the season 4 finale at least a dozen times to get details right. It wasn’t fun. Reviews would be lovely compensation. 
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> We’re now backtracking in the story if you’ve been skipping chapters or not paying attention ;) We’re about 3-4 months before the infamous bath. Research is saying a broken limb like his takes 4-6 months to heal completely and depending on age, health, blah, blah, blah, one can start putting weight on such an injury as early as 1-2 weeks after it has been set. I figure Sandor would be up and about as soon as he possibly could out of sheer bullheadedness. This story is meant to show his development as a person now that he has a chance to really slow down, explore himself and his life. I don’t believe he was ever given a chance to figure who he really is. This is meant to show the transition from Hound to Gravedigger to Sandor. 
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> This is also where t.v. and book are going to merge a bit as I need them to for the story to flow right. Because where the heck did the horses go towards the end of season 4? Yet, Stranger is on the Quite Isle in the book. I would like to stress that I have not read the books yet. Any info I get from that angle are from wiki entries and forums. I’m trying to blend all information as best I can.

Three months prior to the night the Healer climbed into his bed he was sure he was going to die. He lay unconscious, broken and bleeding in the dirt at the base of a small mountain. The second mountain in his life to best him. Something soft and warm pressed at his cheek, bidding him to rise up from his stupor and open his eyes. Hot breath was snorting into his ear, a worried whinny following the puffs of air. Stranger. The Stark bitch had left him that at least. If he couldn’t have mercy at least there was something living to sit with him until the end. If he had any moisture left in his body he would have shed a tear at the stupid beast’s loyalty. 

 

The horse nudged at him again, harder this time and he groaned. His head was pounding. Everything hurt. Everything. He’d been beaten bloody, bruised all over in battle, cracked several ribs and even broken a hand at one time in his life but none of that compared to the all over searing pain consuming him now. The only thing that had felt worse than this was the fire but at least that had been contained to his face. There wasn’t one place on his body untouched by pain now. It hurt to move, hurt to breathe, hurt to lift his arm weakly to stroke Stanger’s nose once. And, fuck it all, he’d pissed himself at some point and was certain that had hurt as well. 

 

Stranger seemed content enough with the minimal attention given, moving away and pawing at the ground before settling in on some grass. He was ravenous he realized watching the horse eat. Hot as an oven and unbearably thirsty too. He would drink even water at this point. His throat was burning, dry as dead leaves and his mouth tasted of blood. He swore he heard horses and the wheels of a cart but decided he was probably hallucinating at this point. Perhaps the true Stranger had come to carry him away, he thought. He was blacking out again and the last notion that struck him was that even the Stranger wouldn’t have him. He would sit on the hillside and rot in torment for all eternity. 

 

Idla Tanner was unbelievably bored. She sat on the back of the wagon kicking her feet and going over the supplies needed for a basic medical bag for what seemed like the hundredth time. She’d already walked next to the wagon for hours collecting herbs and plants. Her Healer’s satchel was near to bursting with fresh ingredients. They were only about an hour or so from the Quiet Isle now. Her companions, Maester Ulchard and three novice Brothers, had stopped chatting some time ago, everyone eager to get back home as quickly as possible. Master Ulchard sat up front on the wagon’s bench along with Brother Merkel. Brothers Pentnook and Harper rode horses separately and followed close behind the wagon. They had been gone from what was now her home for the past seven days. Two days to travel to the nearest trade town, three to barter, and two to make their way back. 

 

It was the last leg of their journey and she was utterly bored. Her head jerked up at the sound of a horse not their own. There, off in the distance and to the left of the road, was a massive black horse. It was shrieking now, rearing up on its hind legs and stomping back onto the ground to paw at something. Was that a person? Heavens, whatever it was looked like a heap of dirt and rubbish from where she sat. 

 

“Maester,” she called, standing to try and get a better look while she pointed, “over there!” 

 

“I see it, child,” her mentor answered, “most likely dead. The poor animal doesn’t understand but we will take a look when we get closer.”

 

She chewed nervously at her lip and remained standing, balancing herself on the railing of the wagon. As soon as they were within fifty yards of the rubble she grabbed a few apples and leapt from the wagon. She ran to the horse and man. Yes, it was definitely a man. A huge man covered in armor that had seen better days. He was caked with earth and blood. There was a bone protruding out of his leg and a sense of dread came over her. She tried to approach and the giant horse reared up again. 

 

“Shhh,” she soothed, holding out one of the apples, “I won’t hurt him. I promise.”

 

The horse grunted at her, coming closer and sniffing her face and hair before moving onto the apple. When the steed was finished with the first she gave him another and took a few steps closer to the man. There were no more verbal complaints from the horse though it continued to watch her. She tossed the last two apples several feet away from her and watched as the stallion went for his treat. At last she could work!

 

She squatted down to his level, putting her head to his chest. It was impossible to make out a heart beat but she thought she could feel the rise of his chest as he breathed. His leather breastplate was already torn off of one shoulder so she dug through her bag to find her knife and slit through the other side. Once she had peeled down the armor she listened for a heart beat again and let out a sigh of relief when she heard it. He was still alive. 

 

She glanced over his body hardly knowing where to begin. He was a wreck. The worst she had ever seen. He was moaning but didn’t seem aware of his surroundings. Calling out things like, “she wolf”, “big bitch” and softly, “little bird”. She brought a hand to his forehead and felt burning heat. There was fever and rot present already. She chewed her lip harder. This did not bode well. 

 

He started to cough and opened his eyes. They were clouded with fever but he was alert enough to call for water. She hastily brought the water skin at her waist up to his lips. He choked and sputtered on the first sip, hacking up pink foam. She stuck a finger into his mouth, feeling around to discover two missing teeth and a large gash in his tongue. Well at least the blood was only from his mouth and not coming from his insides she concluded. He gagged at the invasion and she offered him the water again.

 

“Spit if you need to,” she instructed.

 

He did so twice before swallowing the water. She let him drink heavily from it for a few seconds and then moved the skin away. He whined. 

 

“Let the first bit settle. If you can keep it down you can have more,” she assured him. She could hear the wagon drawing closer and moved to her knees still hovering over the man. She had a moment to really look at him and realized something was off about his face. Under the grime there were scars. Pock marks, she thought. No, she corrected her self, noting the pattern and missing hair, they were burns. She’d found a large, hulking man, dressed in amour with half a face on the side of the road. Something buzzed in the back of her mind. She knew him from somewhere but the exact memory wouldn’t come to her. She huffed and waited. The Maester would help her decide what to do next. 

 

He was first aware of the smell. Something had changed. The air didn’t reek completely of piss, blood and horse. It smelled sweet. Like perfume on a woman. Next, came the sensation of pressure on his chest, his shoulder and then back on his chest. He heard a sigh and he wanted to scream that he was still there. He wasn’t dead yet! He tried to tell the mystery person of the traitorous little wolf, the giant whore of a woman who had bashed in his skull with a rock and the Little Bird he’d never see again. He didn’t know how much he managed to get out. The world was black and he was so tired and hot. He begged for water and wept internally when his request was granted. He choked at first but soon gulped down the water like it was milk straight from the Mother’s teat. He whimpered like a babe when it was taken from him but he heard a woman’s voice telling him he could have more soon as long as he didn’t vomit up what he had already taken in. 

 

He forced his eyes to open and truly see. There was a face above him, blurred at first but soon coming into focus. His gray eyes met blue ones set inside of a pretty face. At first his heart soared thinking the Little Bird had come to lead him through the gates of the afterlife. But then he realized the hair was wrong. There was no color of fire; this creature’s head was crowned with earth. The face was markedly different as well now that he was paying more attention. It was attractive and young but the nose was larger, the lips fuller and the eyebrows thicker. No, the Little Bird hadn’t come to his rescue. Someone else had instead. And she had brought others. 

 

The Maester and Brother Merkel were near her now. The Master kneeled down like she had, but on the man’s opposite side and he immediately ordered her to give the injured man milk of the poppy. She shuffled around in her bag, fishing out a small bottle and tipped it up to the man’s cracked lips. He drank it all down in one go and she then offered him a few sips of water.

 

“Give him another,” the Maester bid her. She looked at him puzzled and he explained, “He’s larger than most. One won’t do him much good. By the looks of it he’s been suffering for hours. If he sleeps so be it. It will be for the best.” She wasn’t quite sure how deep of a sleep the Maester spoke of but did as he told her, bringing another bottle out of her bag. 

 

This time when she brought the liquid to his lips his hand snapped up, grabbing her arm with a force she wouldn’t have expected to come from him. She looked into his gray eyes and saw fear. She’d seen that look before. Old or young, man or woman, coward or brave they all looked the same when facing down death. Their eyes always asking the same question. Would they live or die? Sometimes she told the truth and sometimes she lied. 

 

She held his stare and spoke in a firm tone, “You won’t die. I won’t let you.” She meant her words and prayed to all the Seven Gods to give her strength and skill. She tilted the bottle up once again to his mouth. “Drink. You will sleep that’s all, I promise.” He released her arm and drank the second offering. 

 

She continued to give him water until his eyelids began to droop. While she tended to him Maester Ulchard began looking him over. The broken man let out a long sigh and slipped off into blackness. She looked up at the Maester and awaited direction. 

 

“Brother Merkel, go back to the wagon and tell the others to bring everything as close as possible. Tear a board from the side of the wagon. I need that and rope to make a splint. Bring any water you can spare and some of the linen cloth we purchased. I will need it all,” Master Ulchard instructed. Brother Merkel took off quick as a rabbit to do as the Maester bid. 

 

The Maester then turned to her, “Help me sit him up. I need as much of this armor off of him as we can manage.” She was glad of the fact that she was a bit taller and wider of hip than some of the other women of her village. It gave her a slight advantage in helping her hold the man upright while the Maester used his hands and his knife to pry away at the armor’s ties. They managed to get it all off of him, tossing the pieces in a pile to the side. Brother Pentnook was the one to arrive with linen and water while the other Brothers continued to gather the materials needed to make a splint. Both she and the Maester ripped the linen into makeshift rags and used what little water they had to wipe away at some of the gore.

 

Now it was a bit easier to see what was going on. The leg was horribly injured of course, and there seemed to be a festering wound of some sort at the base of his neck. There were cuts and scrapes and bruises everywhere and he was still filthy. His hands had deep cuts to the palms and fingers which oozed thick, sticky blood. His right arm, the one nearest the Maester, hung low and limp. It looked out of place to her. 

 

The Maester caught her eyeing it up and nodded his head at her, “It’s come out of its proper home. We need to set it back,” he explained while swiftly folding some of the linen to make two slings. He bound one around the man’s chest and handed the ends to her. 

 

“Stand and use the sling to pull him back up in a sitting position. I need you to hold him there while I pull his arm back into place.”

 

She did exactly as she was told, using her weight and the sling to create leverage and keep the man upright. Maester Ulchard tucked the other sling under the upper part of the injured arm and then forcefully pulled it up and back. There was a sickening crunch from the joint and the bloodied man moaned in his sleep but did not wake. She gently lowered him back to the slanted ground. The arm looked right again to her. The Maester used the smaller sling to bind the arm to the man’s chest. 

“It needs to stay still for a few days,” he told her, “and it may give him trouble for some time.”

 

Brother Merkel had arrived with the board and rope. Brother Harper had mounted one of the horses in order to scout out the hillside to see if there were any clues as to what had happened or who the man was. The Maester had her and Pentnook lift up the broken leg as gently as possible while he hurriedly slipped the board under the man’s leg. Together, she and Pentnook slowly lowered the limb and then she began helping the Maester lash pieces of rope around the quickly made splint. It wasn’t the best but it was all they currently had and it was far better than nothing. 

 

Once they had finished, Maester Ulchard called for Brother Harper. He came riding back within minutes. The only thing he had found was a longsword that looked just as rough as the armor they had recently removed. He added it to the pile of the man’s only apparent belongings. As a group they gathered up the pile and carried it all to the wagon. Boxes were shifted and the stock organized tighter to make room for their new charge. The armor went towards the back of the wagon. If the man was kept in a sitting position, with his back against the armor pile they could just squeeze his body into the space left over. 

 

They all walked back over to the man and black horse. Everyone took a limb, herself and Maester Ulchard sharing the broken one. They lifted him carefully and she thanked all the Gods that three Brothers had come along on the journey this time. There would have been no other way they could have moved the hefty man otherwise. Cautious of the injured leg, they all lifted him into the wagon and settled him as best they could. It was impossible to move him without jarring the broken leg occasionally and every time that it happened he cried out but mercifully remained asleep. 

 

The beast of a horse had started pacing nervously and neighing in agitation as soon as they had laid hands on him. Once their patient was secure, she cut a slit in one of the bags of oats. It wouldn’t due to leave a steed behind who obviously held its master in such high regard. 

 

“Make haste,” the Maester warned her, “we need to reach the Isle before sundown and he needs proper treatment as soon as possible.” 

 

She scampered over to the horse, holding out her cupped hands that were now stuffed with oats. The horse glared at her and kicked at the ground. 

 

“Come on,” she pleaded with the animal, “he’ll be fine, I promise. He needs you.” The horse remained where it was and she took a few paces more towards it. 

 

“Pretty boy. Good horse. Handsome boy,” she tried any name she could remember hearing a horse called in the past. The horse still stood where it was, snorting and glaring at her. 

 

“Look, I know I’m a stranger-“she stopped when the horse’s ears perked up. “That’s right, I’m a stranger but I’ll take care of him. You just need to eat these damned oats and move your arse!” she cried out in frustration. She tried not to make a habit of cursing but the horse was clearly asking for it. 

 

To her complete surprise the horse grunted out a happy little noise and came over to her hands to feed. What kind of a horse enjoys being cursed at she thought? But it didn’t matter now. She’d some how earned it’s trust and she started to move backwards towards the wagon. She gave the stallion an apple once they had made it to her goal and she managed to slip a rope over its neck. She clambered back into the wagon and took a seat on a sack of barley. With everyone tucked away they all began anew on the trail towards the Quiet Isle. 

 

The Maester turned in his seat addressing her. “See if you can get more water into him. He needs water to help bring the fever down. How much milk of the poppy do you have left?”

 

She looked in her bag before replying, “Only one bottle.” She hadn’t thought they would ever need more than three bottles during what was supposed to be a simple supply run.

 

The Maester nodded thoughtfully, “If he wakes give him half the bottle but use it all if you have to. Hopefully, it will allow him to sleep through the ride. This road is not going to be kind to the leg.”

 

She chewed at her lip with a fury as she dripped water into the large man’s mouth and rubbed at his throat to get him to swallow. She was sure she knew him from somewhere. 

 

“Maester,” she called, “do you know this man?”

 

The Measter turned back around to face her again before answering, “I believe he may be the Hound of house Clegane. I am not certain of course, but there are few men who could match the description and I fear our new charge may be a perfect match. The last news I heard of him was that he was serving under the Lannister household. There is a rumor he deserted. If this man and the Hound are the same person we must take care. He’s known for his bark and bite.” 

 

The Hound of Westeros! Nearly every person in the Seven Kingdoms knew of the late King Joffery’s personal guard. That was almost it but her mind was still clamoring at her that there was more and she just couldn’t grasp the memory she wanted. However, she did remember hearing his name from stories in her youth. His name was used by the Septa of her village in dark tales meant to terrify the small into obedience. Like dire wolves or white walkers. Don’t disobey your parents or the Hound will come and eat you up! 

 

What a preposterous load of horse dung, she thought as she looked down at him. As a child she imagined a gruesome, hairy monster with sharp teeth and claws. He didn’t look scary at all now, covered in muck, his face wrinkled with pain. He looked like a man. For some reason it troubled her to think that he had spent a good portion of his life with his name being used to frighten children. It seemed wrong to use a man that way no matter how terrible his deeds.

 

And then, as she grew a bit older and the girls she knew had started to become women, Prudence Swindly had come back from visiting her aunt one summer. Prudence had told her all manner of stories. There had been a Tourney and the legendary Hound had participated in it. Irritating, idiotic Prudence had claimed to have lain with him. She said he took her on all fours and forced her to howl for him. That day she had decided Prudence Swindly was a terrible, piggish lair. 

 

She worried for the man beside her. She didn’t know him. She wasn’t part of a high court or a God. She had no right to judge a man based on nothing but hearsay. She was a healer and it was her duty to care for him without prejudice. Let him be well, she prayed to the Mother. There’s been enough death to go around for all of us, she added silently. Continuing to give him the water drop by drop she saw the structures that compromised the homes on the Quiet Isle rise on the horizon. 

 

“Hold on,” she told him, unsure if he could hear her, “We’re nearly there.”


	6. Chapter 6

The wagon lurched and bumped its way along the main stretch of road on the Quiet Isle.  It was dark now and they had made it just in time before the tide had taken the only known path to the Isle. The man had remained asleep the entire ride, murmuring noises but no discernable words. He must have been truly depleted, Idla concluded.  She’d managed to pack his bleeding gum and tongue with clove paste while he slept. She’d also done a decent job at binding his hands. They would need cleaned and stitched but the small bandages she had made were helping to stop the flow of blood for now.  He was still burning up with fever but there was nothing she could do for him during the journey other then continue to force water down his throat. She had dried elderberry and yarrow on her, but they couldn’t spare the time to stop and make a tea from them.  He’d have to keep burning for the time being.

 

 

She was profoundly grateful when they finally stopped in front of the small building used for the sick. It contained a tiny closet of a room where the Maester slept, a pantry crowded from floor to ceiling with all manner of healing agents, and a great room with a work table, more stocked shelves and four beds for the potential ill. The horses where drawn to a halt and Maester Ulchard become quite focused.

 

 

In a serious tone he ordered, “Merkel, go find at least four strong men to help carry him in. Pentnook, go to the Elder Brother and inform him of what has happened. Harper, go inside and clear the work table of everything. I don’t care where it goes just clear everything away. Idla, find Quintin and Maddox. Tell them to come here at once. We’re going to need every knowledgeable hand if he’s to make it through the night. I will wait here with him until the men arrive to help carry him.”

 

 

 Everyone leapt up from a seat or off of a horse to do as they were ordered. Idla jumped down off the wagon and followed Harper inside to set down her bag. Once she stepped into the building she noticed Quintin and Maddox, or Quin and Maddie when she was feeling affectionate or cross with them, were already in the building working on hanging herbs to dry. She was again thankful to the Gods they had been spared some precious time by not having to look for the young Maesters in training.

 

 

She immediately threw down her bag while Harper began taking things off the work bench by the armful and dumping it all on one of the empty beds. There were no patients in the room to bother with the noise he caused. Quintin and Maddox stared at them with open mouths.

 

 

“We found a man,” she explained hurriedly, “on the side of the road. He is gravely injured and will need all of us if he is going to get well. The Maester wants you two to help. Get all of this”-she pointed to the small pile of herbs and twine-“back into the store room.”  The hastily did as she bid. She was five years their senior and she’d known them since they were in swaddling clothes. They knew she carried nearly as much clout as the Maester and did not want to disobey her.

 

 

Idla began pulling out bandages, bowls, tonics and salves. Anything she thought would be of use to them.  She placed them all on a low bench near the solid, wooden work table. Harper had finished his task and was rocking on his heels in a corner.

 

 

“Go stable the horses,” she barked, “or go see if the Maester needs anything else of you.” Honestly, she huffed to herself, why couldn’t others just do? Why did they always need to be told?

 

 

Harper scurried out of the room while the two boys in training removed their current project from the room. She set herself to wiping down the work table with a damp cloth. She could hear the voices of several men outside and the Maester shouting above them all. There was the noise of scuffling and soon the door was kicked open by Merkel who was carrying a great armload of armor. He was followed by Harper, who carried the sword he had found and the remaining pieces of armor. They set it all upon the bed that held the workbench’s former contents.

 

 

The door moved again as five Brothers pushed through the door, carrying the injured man. One at his head, and four others spread out taking one limb apiece.  Maester Ulchard followed close behind and Idla backed up out of their way.

 

 

“Put him on the table. No sense in dirtying one of the beds right now. Take care with him!” the Maester shouted at the men, who were unnecessarily jarring the strange man while they lifted him up onto the table.

 

 

Once they had hoisted him onto the table the five Brothers nodded their heads and took their leave.  Harper and Merkel hovered nearby. She rolled her eyes at them and stepped up to the work bench.

 

 

“Go tend to the horses,” the Maester told the young Brothers and then turning to his students, “we need to remove his clothing.”

 

 

Quintin and Maddox began pulling at the ropes of the makeshift splint. Idla pulled out her knife to start at the ruined clothing but the Maester stayed her hand.  “Go and start water to boil. As much as you can, child,” he told her.

 

 

She huffed at him angrily but did as she was bid. She understood they needed water but the Maester could have asked any one of them to do it and had chosen her. He was attempting to protect her modesty and it was trying her patience. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a man naked before, she thought. She’d had six older brothers for goodness sakes, and she’d been bathing in the same room as the men of the Isle for nearly four months. There had also been the blonde farmer’s boy whom she’d given her maidenhood to. How was she ever to tend to men properly if she wasn’t even allowed to look at them?

 

 

It all seemed ridiculous, she fumed while starting a fire and setting a large, handled pot of water over top of it. She couldn’t stay mad for long though. The Maeseter was fond of her. They’d been working together for the past four years and ever since _then_ he’d taken her under his wing, trying to protect her and act as much as a father to her as he could. No, she wasn’t mad at him any longer. He was only doing what he thought best for her.

 

 

The bloodied man had begun moaning again and she resisted the urge to turn around. Now that the water was set to boiling there was nothing to do but stare at the fire and wait. After a few more minutes Maester Ulchard called her back over. 

 

 

The injured man had been completely stripped. She supposed that he had a pleasant build somewhere under all the mess. It was hard to tell. He was hairy and there was a tremendous amount of filth clinging to it all in clots. The Maester had placed a bowl over the man’s groin and she nearly rolled her eyes again at her supposed virtue that was being protected. But then she thought better of it. It was, after all, the last little shred of dignity they could offer the strange man.  

 

 

Now that he was bare they could see various cuts all over his body that would need tended to. His rib cage was a map of purple and blue. The Maester ran his hands over the man’s ribs and declared none of them to be broken, only severely bruised.

 

 

He kept groaning while his eyelids began to flutter open.  She walked over to him and placed the back of her hand to his cheek.  She’d give him more milk of the poppy in a moment but she wanted to reassure him that he had made it through the first step to recovery just as she promised him he would. If she could, she’d ask him a few questions as well. His eyes opened fully and looked into her blue ones.

 

 

“Blue eyed wench,” he slurred. 

 

 

He remembered her. That was good wasn’t it? Though she couldn’t say she approved of the name he had given her. 

                                                                                         

 

“My name is Idla,” she corrected him.

 

 

He shook his head, frowning and replying, “No. Blue eyed water wench.” Then he _giggled._ The fearsome Hound of Westeros indeed, she scoffed to herself.  He was clearly delirious and she didn’t have time for it. Maddox snickered and she glared daggers at him.

 

 

She took a haughty tone and addressed the man again. “Look, you’re alright now. There are four of us here. We’ve got to bathe you and then we can start working on your wounds. The leg is going to hurt. A lot. Do you want milk of the poppy now or after we bathe you?”

 

 

“After?” he drawled. He didn’t seem certain. Well, he wasn’t writhing in pain. He seemed a bit giddy and comfortable actually. Later would probably be best. She tsked and shook her head at him. Fever and poppy did strange things to people. Best to get on with the job. They could ask him questions later when his head was clear.

 

 

Quintin was busy at the fire, ladling hot water into several bowls. She gathered up the man’s soiled and torn clothing, seeing that there was no way to salvage the rags. They stank of blood and urine.  She brought the foul-smelling pile over to the fire and tossed it all in to burn. The boots had been saved so she threw them on top of the armor. Then she helped Quintin bring the bowls over to the table.  Like when they had carried him, they each took a separate limb and got to work with water and cloth. She’d taken his left arm and worked with speedy care, gingerly dabbing at the cuts on his hand.  Once she was finished with the hand she moved up his arm until all of the dirt and blood had been washed away. She took extra time to blot at the wound on his neck. It gave off a putrid smell and would need draining.

 

 

The man had begun garbling a tune as they worked. He was off key and his voice was like gravel. Gods, she hoped he was a better singer when he wasn’t mad with fever.  It was a bawdy ballad popular in the taverns about a beer wench and the men who tried to woo her. He kept changing the words “beer wench” to “water wench”. Quintin had begun to whistle along and Maddox was laughing again. Maddie was closest to her so she kicked him in the shin and stuck her tongue out at Quin across the table.

 

 

“Are we ready to work?” she asked with authority, “May I give him more milk of the poppy now?”

 

 

The Maester nodded while Maddox cleared away the bowls. She reached up onto one of the shelves in the room and came back quickly to dump the liquid down the strange man’s throat. He was snoring again within minutes and she felt only a little guilty for drugging him to get him to shut up.

 

 

“Quintin, help Idla with the wound on his neck. Maddox and I will bind his ribs,” the Maester told them without looking up from his task. They were all busy now attacking each injury separately. 

 

 

Idla looked over the nasty sore she’d been given to heal once more. It was black with rot. Fire would do no good at this point. It would only seal it further and cause it to fester at a faster pace. The dead flesh needed to be cut away and allowed to bleed again in order to heal. She grabbed one of the long, thin knives and a pair of small tongs from a shelf. She held both over a candle’s flame for a minute. Once they were hot she started in on the rotten flesh. It was as bad as she thought it would be. Putrid pus began pouring out of it as soon as the knife tip pierced the wound. Quintin reached between her hands with a cloth to dab at it. Both of them gagged on the stench and Maester Ulchard shoved peppermint leaves at them to chew while they worked. She kept at it, digging and slicing away the dead parts while Quintin kept sponging up the foul waste that spilled from the wound.  Meanwhile Maddox and Maester Ulchard were rubbing the wounded man’s entire chest down with a bruise paste.

 

 

Finally, the wound began to run clear with fluids and then red with blood. Idla poured water over the crater and pressed a clean cloth to it. He’d end up with a pocked scar there but it was better than dying. She instructed Quintin to make up a poultice to prevent rot and kept pressure on the wound while the young man worked.  Once the poultice was made and in place they all helped heft the great man up till he was sitting so that the Maester could wrap his ribs tight. There was a knock at the door as they laid the man back down onto the table.

 

 

Brothers Pentnook and Merkel entered bearing trays of bread, cheese and fruit. There was also a skin of water and one of wine. The Elder Brother had sent them with refreshment since the caretakers had missed the evening meal, they explained. They all suddenly realized it was past midnight and none of them had stopped for food or drink. Maddie’s stomach rumbled. They ate quickly, standing and thanking Pentnook and Merkel for their thoughtfulness.  They gulped down the water and wine. There was still much work that lay ahead of them all.

 

 

Idla finished her meal first and, without needing to be told, fetched the special hooked needle and waxed thread used for stitching. She drew a stool up to the work table and turned the man’s right hand palm up. She was the best at stitching so no one offered to help or bothered her.  Her stitches were small, precise and delicate. They rarely left anything other than light scars. There had been some advantage to the tedious sewing lessons from her Septa. She was sure the cuts on his fingers would heal with no scars. The ones to his palms were much deeper though and tested her skill.  

 

 

While she concentrated on her chore the men began cleaning and treating every bruise, scrape and cut they could find on his body. They covered him in salves and pastes and then rechecked his body to make sure they had missed nothing. They were saving the leg for last and all dreading the task.

 

 

She was nearly finished with his hands. The Maester had sent Maddox to collect splinting boards from the storage pantry. Quintin was out at the well refilling the great kettle to boil more water.  She continued to work at the last few knots of thread on the left hand of the man while the Maester put the injured right arm back in a sling.  They both sat back for few moments to rest while Quintin waited for the fresh water to boil. Once he began ladling the heated water, they started gathering up bandages, oils, tongs, knives, and tubing, laying it all near the terrible gash in his leg. It was a small mercy that the break was clean and not jagged. The bone would most likely fuse and mend alright but the torn muscles would take months to heal and they might never be able to perform as they had once done in the past. And that was all only if the fever didn’t take him first.

 

 

The Maeseter settled himself by the limb with the bone protruding from it. “Idla,” he started, “give him half a bottle more of milk of the poppy. I don’t dare give him anymore in case he never wakes but I would prefer if we could keep him still while we work.” 

 

 

 

He turned and addressed the two little Maesters while Idla followed his instructions, “You two each take an arm. If he struggles, hold him. Idla, when you’re ready I need you to spread the muscles wide with the tongs while I manipulate the bone back into place.”

 

 

Idla took up the tongs and gnawed at her lip again. This was going to be bloody and there would be a tremendous amount of pain for the man. She prayed that he would remain sleeping. She had not yet set a bone that had broken through the skin and she was thankful the Maester was there to do it. All she had to do was assist.  The Maester had rinsed off his hands and was wadding pads of cloth under the broken leg.

 

 

“When you’re ready,” he nodded to her.

 

 

She sucked in her breath and pushed the tongs down into the wound. The man immediately began to stir in his sleep. He didn’t struggle but Quintin and Maddox already had their arms on him in case he started to do so.  She pushed the tongs down in deeper while the man whimpered in his sleep until the Maester bid her to stop. Then she spread the tongs, giving the Maester room to work.

 

 

The injuried man’s eyes sprang open as he started to wail and fight. Damn it all, she cursed. This was going to get more difficult now.  The Maseter tried to work as fast as he could. As soon as he began pushing the bone back into place the man began to scream. Idla felt her stomach turn to ice. She’d only ever heard men scream like that once before. She hated the feeling and wanted it to stop. Wanted him to stop. His head was thrown back now. He was gasping and howling in pain, trying to shove Maddie and Quin away. If he hadn’t been ill she was certain he could have tossed both young men across the room as easily as sacks of flour. The more the boys held him tight the more he seemed to struggle and finally Idla could take it no more.  She was helpless the last time a man screamed like that. She wasn’t now.

 

 

“For pity’s sake comfort him or trade me places,” she yelled at the two young boys. They looked at her helplessly. They were nearly as frightened as the man they held down she realized. They’d never seen someone in true pain until now.  The Maester had gotten the bone back into the leg but it was not yet in the correct place.

 

 

“Maddie,” she ordered, “Switch places with me. Now!”

 

 

Maddox did as he was told, taking the tongs from her hands as she slipped under his arms and up to the stranger’s face.  “Quintin, just go away,” she hollered at the other boy, smacking his hands. She felt bad for yelling but she couldn’t coddle the two boys all the time and they were both proving useless at consoling the man.  

 

 

The man’s arms had begun flailing wildly as soon as the boys had let go. She grabbed the one opposite her and held onto it with all the strength she had. He clenched and pulled at the neckline of her dress where his other hand had found purchase. She hauled herself up onto the work bench beside him. On her knees, she leaned over his face. His eyes were nothing but pain and terror. He’d start seizing soon if they didn’t calm him down and that could bring death. She was not going to lose him now.  He was still crying out and tears were streaming down his face.

 

 

“What’s your name?” she said in her most commanding tone. He looked back confused. “Your name, man! Give me your name.”

 

 

“Hound!” he choked out.

 

 

That was one question answered at least. She didn’t like the answer though. She wasn’t going to call him a dog. Not now.

 

 

“Your given name. What’s your birth name?” she tried again, shouting at him, making sure to keep his eyes on her.

 

 

“Clegane!” was the reply.  Better, she thought.

 

 

“Clegane, look at me” -he’d started screaming again- “Look at me! It’s nearly done. The worst is nearly over. Look at my face.”

 

 

She was surprised that he did so. “You’re not alone. I won’t let you die,” she reassured him.

 

 

He held her hand so tightly she was sure she wasn’t going to escape the night without a break herself. Her prediction came true when she felt a sharp, stinging snap in one finger.  She cried out and tears gathered in her eyes. It would be alright if he would let go but he kept on squeezing. 

 

 

“Clegane, you’ve broken one of my fingers. Let go! Can you hear me! Let it go. You’re hurting me Ser!” she cried, genuine pain in her voice. He was of a known house and a member of the Kingsgaurd after all. Perhaps a title would reach him.

 

 

He immediately let go. His whole upper body was trembling, but he held her eyes. “Not a Ser,” he spat out.  Then he bit into his lip so hard she saw blood appear.

 

 

“Quin I need your belt,” she gasped, shaking out her aching hand. Seeing the young man hesitate she barked, “Now Quintin! He’s going to chew through his lip and tongue in a moment if you don’t stick some leather between his teeth.”

 

 

Quintin jumped into action then, slipping his belt off and cramming it between Clegane’s jaws. He clenched his teeth tight into the thick leather, breathing heavily through his nose and keening. Tears continued to leak from the corners of his eyes yet he still watched her face. His hand was still holding her dress. The other hand had moved to her arm and she knew she was bruising there from his hold on her. He was a mess of drool, blood, snot and tears. She squeezed the hand at her dress as tightly as she could.

 

 

“Almost done now. You’re almost done. You can rest soon.” She told him. The Maester was now putting the muscle back into place as best he could. Clegane swallowed thickly, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he passed out.  Idla sighed deeply and bit her tongue to keep from crying.  She was grateful to the Seven that he had finally been given a break from the pain.  She sniffed back her tears. It would do no good to give into her womanly nature now.

 

 

Maddox had removed the tongs from the wound and was now helping the Maester mop up the fresh blood. They poured bowlfuls of water over the wound to wash out any remaining debris and finally rubbed the skin around the wound down with wild oregano oil.  Poor Quintin looked as if he might vomit.

 

 

“Go outside for a moment, Quin,” she said gently, “I’m sorry I yelled. Go take some fresh air.”

 

 

Idla inspected her smarting hand. It was only the middle knuckle of her little finger. It was on her left hand as well so it wouldn’t give her too much trouble with her day to day chores. A few days splinted and she would be fine. It wasn’t the first finger she’d broken. 

 

 

She stepped near the Maester, to inspect what had been done. All that there seemed left to do was to stitch the gaping wound closed. There would be no way to keep any scarring from occurring.  The wound was deep and would leave a puckering line of scar tissue. She’d need to leave some space to insert tubing at the top and bottom of the wound. One to administer healing oils and one for drainage.

 

 

“You should let me splint that,” the Maester offered, nodding towards her hand.

 

 

She shook her head, “Later. I can still stitch and it would only get in the way right now. Let me finish.”

 

 

 

 

The Maester frowned at her.

 

 

“Fine,” she acquiesced, “Just bind it to the next one with a bit of cloth. It will be fine. I need to be able to work.”

 

 

The Maester quickly did as she asked smiling at her. “You did very well,” he praised her gently.

 

 

“I’m not finished yet.”

 

 

While she sorted through the shelves for the largest stitching needle she could find, Quintin returned from outside with more color in his face than before. He made his way over to the work bench and helped Maddox and Maester Ulchard tie the splinting boards around Clegane’s broken leg.

 

 

When they were done it was Idla’s turn to perform the final task in the healing they had begun yesterday. It was near dawn now of the following day. They had worked through the night and exhaustion was starting to bear down on them all. She pinched her cheeks and shook her head to wake up a bit. They were nearly there. She would be strong.

 

 

She made her stitches large and loose. The gash would swell and drain before it got better and she didn’t want the stitches to burst. While she worked the young Maesters began making a tea for fever. Maester Ulchard worked on putting all the unused items back in their proper home.  The two little Maesters brought a cup of tea over and began spooning it down Clegane’s throat drop by drop, just as she had done with the water earlier. They would have to force the tea and water into him at a near constant pace if they were going to keep his body strong enough to fight.  She finished her last stitch and the Maester used a sheet to cover Clegane’s still sleeping form.

 

 

“We’ll let him rest here until after the first meal,” the Maester informed her, “I’ll send Quintin for the strong Brothers then to help move him to a bed. You should take some rest, my dear.”

 

 

She bit her lip. She wanted to stay. Her memories were bothering her, reminding her of how helpless she had been in the past. Now she had the power to actually do something. Save _someone_. But the old Maester was looking at her with pleading eyes. In the end she promised the Maester she would go get a few hours sleep only after she had brought them all food and drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!
> 
> The title changed because I was very unhappy with the first one. 
> 
> Sorry if Sandor seems a bit OOC. He’s out of his freakin’ gourd from drugs and fever right now. My brother used to get super high fevers whenever he got sick and he would be completely whacked out and giggle at everything. I figure a doped up Sandor could be allowed to be a little fun. I promise it’s not going to last. The Hound will be waking up soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and reviews. Keep 'em coming! 
> 
> I really need to go back at some point and edit this story. There are so many mistakes. It’s driving me nuts. Most of it is just spelling errors. I did make one significant change so far though. It came to my attention that the Elder Brother isn’t really older so I went back and changed the wording in chapter 2 to make him more around the same age as Sandor. I like where that’s going. I would much rather develop a brotherly relationship between those two than a father and son one. 
> 
>  
> 
> Shameless water/wine reference. It fit.

There was movement. He was aware of his body shifting. Didn’t feel like a ship. More like horses. There was pain but it was muffled. It was like being underwater. The world was still there only it wasn’t. There was the unbearable assault of clove in his mouth. And water. He wanted to spit it out and bark for wine but he couldn’t find it in himself to speak. So he let the water in and slept.

 

 

Next he was aware of voices. Men and a woman. The woman’s voice sounded familiar but he didn’t know from where. He was hot and cold all at the same time. He tried moving but only his eyes and head responded. And then he saw blue eyes. Dark, twilight blue eyes, not the pale winter born ones he was used to.  The cornflower eyes had given him water when he begged. They had told him he wouldn’t die. But he wanted to. What was there left for him really? Pain. No family. No friends. No lively hood. No matter how miserable his service had been it had still been something that didn’t exist now. Nothing to be proud of. No legacy. No sons to take his place. He would have preferred death at this point but the blue eyes wouldn’t let him. He tried to curse at her.

 

 

The blue eyed one was talking. He didn’t understand a word she said. He felt chilled now and oddly wet. There were hands on his body and he hadn’t the strength to push them away. His head was full of waking dreams. He remembered being in a tavern once. He’d been wet then too from some drunken whoreson who had dumped ale over his head.  He had taken the man out and the one that stood behind him and the three behind that one. There had been a song going before he covered the floor in blood. How did it go again?  The tune ran through his mind and then he slept again.

 

 

He had woken up in hell. Agony. Sheer, blinding, terrible agony was all he felt. His leg was being torn off by a demon. It was clawing its way from the inside out and back again. Terror took him when he realized he couldn’t move. He was moving his arms. He knew it. And he was _being held down_. All his mind could see was his brother and coals, his own burning hair and a smashed wooden knight. He couldn’t move then. He couldn’t move now. He fought with everything he had. He could deal with pain. His mind became less than an animal when his body was forced by another’s hand to endure it though. He screamed and cried and gave all the hell back he could muster.

 

 

And then the pressure stopped. The pain was still there, ripping him apart, but he was free. There was a small hand in his and cloth in his other. He bore down on them, trying to breath through the raw savagery in his leg.  Blue eyes were there again yelling at him, demanding a name. What was his name? He didn’t know anymore. All he knew was pain. She kept screaming and it gave him something to focus on. A hound, he told the blue eyes. He was a mongrel. A cur. That’s what everyone had called him for so long he forgot sometimes it wasn’t his true name. She wouldn’t let it be, pushing him for more. Three dogs on yellow flew into his mind and he gasped out his house name.

 

 

“Clegane,” she said back to him. That was right. That was him. He tried to make sense of what else she said. Words still held little meaning to him but her tone was calm and firm. The blue eyes wouldn’t let him die. She was yelling again and crying herself. What did she have to cry about? He heard a title and balked at it. He’d never be too out of his mind to not spit upon titles.  He tasted blood and then leather. The blue eyes never left him as he sank back into darkness.

 

 

Idla had bathed first after leaving the sick house early in the morning. She realized she was nearly as filthy now as Clegane had been when they first found him.  There was no one else in the bath that early in the morning. The other women might be there soon though and she had no wish to speak to anyone right now. She tore the dirty dress from her body and sank down into the bath, letting the water hide the tears that managed to leak out. She’d never get the sound of him screaming out of her mind. She’d never be able to forget how they had all screamed.  Once she was done letting go of some of her distress she bathed quickly. The men were waiting on her for food after all. She slipped back into the dirty dress. There would be a long day of care ahead of her and there was no sense in ruining another.

 

 

She made her way, a bit dazed, to the kitchens. Lyman, the kitchen master took one look at her and made her sit in a chair while he gave her a few sips of wine, followed by a strong cup of tea. She gave him minimal details and he nodded his head in sympathy. While she drank he pushed an apple and some sweet rolls at her. She ate little but thanked him for his kindness. When she was finished, Lyman thrust a tray into her hands. It was heaping with more sweet rolls and three bowls of porridge with gooseberry jam. She had enough sense to ask that some broth be set aside from the bubbling stock cauldrons in case her charge’s fever broke. If he could survive the fever he would need nourishment to continue to heal.

 

 

Idla made her way back to the sick house.  Clegane had been moved to a bed. He was propped up into a half sitting position with several pillows and a sheet was over his body.  Maddox and Quintin took the tray from her eagerly and began eating straight away. She would never cease to be amazed at the appetites of young men. Maester Ulchard let the boys fill their bellies while he took over spooning tea into the patient’s mouth. Idla sunk down onto the empty bed beside Clegane’s and drifted off into a restless sleep.

 

 

The Maester shook her shoulder towards noon. He’d sent Maddox and Quintin off to bathe, eat and sleep and they wouldn’t see them again until evening. The Maester was done in and went to his small little chamber to take some much needed rest. There was a plate of salted meat, bread, spring onions and radishes on the workbench for her and an enormous pot of fever tea for Clegane. She dripped half a cup of tea past his lips before she took any refreshment herself. He was still burning up and Idla worried. Perhaps the rot in his neck had taken root and he would never wake. She sighed in anger. Bully to that she thought. She’d worked too damn hard to save him. She wasn’t going to let a fever win now.  She forced more water down his throat. She then got out a bowl and poured water into it. Taking up a rag, she lifted the sheet to reveal one limb at a time and began sponging his body down with the tepid water. He shivered and shook.  By the time she had finished he was still hot but it seemed like the burning had subsided a fraction.

 

 

She kept the same pace all afternoon. Tea, water, sponge. Tea, water, sponge. Over and over again until the Maester finally rose from his bed to join her. He took the cloth from her and told her to go eat. She refused. She had a cause now. A battle. She sent him to get food instead. He came back quickly with Maddie and Quin in tow. They had brought bowls filled to the brim with savory mutton stew and fat loaves of brown bread.  The two little scholars took over for her while she sat and ate with the Maester.

 

 

“I’m staying here tonight,” she stated and the Maester nodded his head.

 

 

“I didn’t think I’d be able to get you to leave. Well, if you’re staying I’ll have the boys make more tea and another poultice for his neck. Then I’ll send them off to their own beds. We can share the night shift.” 

 

 

Once they had finished eating they gave the young boys their instructions. The Maester showed her how to drip watered down oregano oil into the gash in Clegane’s leg and hold the tube at the bottom of the wound down low to drain into a dish.  It would need to be done morning and night to prevent rot. The fluid that came out of the tube was pink with blood but showed no sign of pus, which the Maester declared to be a very good sign.  She packed the wounds in his mouth with clove paste again and began her tea and water routine once more. The Maester let her go at it another hour or so before he stilled her hand and insisted he take the first watch of the night since he had slept last.

 

 

She reluctantly handed the water cup over to him and lay down on her chosen bed. The knowledge that she was close by the feverish man should something go wrong calmed her nerves. She watched him breathe until she could hold her eyes open no more.

 

 

The second morning was spent much like the first.  The Maester and she took turns resting and caring for the sleeping Clegane.  Quintin and Maddox appeared to fetch fresh water, bring them food, and restock them with fever tea. The only time she left his side was when it came time to change the padded cloths beneath him. She had tried to help but Maester Ulchard shooed her away insisting that the man would feel better knowing only other men had tended to him in such a manner.

 

 

 

In the afternoon they all helped hold the man up so the Maester could reapply the bruise paste to his ribcage and once again bind his ribs.  Shortly after the two boys left, Clegane began to shudder and sweat. It came pouring off of him in rivers, dampening the sheet and the Maester smiled.

 

 

“The fever has broken. He may make it yet,” he said with triumph and Idla wept with relief not caring that the old man saw her. He patted her hand. “I know this has been hard for you. He may never know what this means to you but I do. You did very well. He owes you his life.” She cried harder while her surrogate father continued to comfort her.

 

 

Once she had her tears under control the Maester told her she should rest again. She shook her head and the Maester sighed. If she wouldn’t rest he was going to take a short walk and find the Elder Brother to inform him of Clegane’s turn for the better, he told her. Idla sat and stared at the large man once the Maester had left. It was the first time in two days she was able to sit still and observe him and she was deeply ashamed to realize no one had yet cleaned his face. It was a horrible detail for a healer to overlook but they had all been so busy with trying to keep him alive that a soiled face seemed unimportant until now.

 

 

He was mumbling again which she took as another good sign. Perhaps he would wake soon. She got water and rags ready to clean his face. She started with his hair, using the cloth and her fingers to comb through his locks. There were old clumps of dirt and blood and she scolded herself once again. She had to change the water three times to finish her task. Once she moved onto his face she was gentle as she worked. As the dirt washed away to reveal more skin she gasped. She did know him! Or knew of him. The memory she had been searching for came to her when she saw his true face.

 

 

It had been at least twelve years ago. There had been a Tourney in Maidenpool and her parents had finally consented to her attending with only her brothers as chaperones. Giddy with the thrill of young adulthood she took a seat amongst the crowd. Her brothers bought her honeyed almonds and took turns holding her on their laps. She had felt like a princess.  There was an announcement for the next contenders and she realized they had called out for the Hound. She gulped. Her Septa had not one kind word for that man. A tall man marched out onto the grass. Taller than any she had ever seen before. She had always assumed her brother Raymond was the tallest man alive but this one stood several hands above Raymond’s impressive height.

 

 

She nearly shrieked with fright at the snarling hound’s head on top of the man. For a brief moment she thought it was his real head before she realized it was only a helm. Still it wasn’t like any of the other Knight’s helms. This was meant to scare and intimidate. The giant man lifted the helm off his head once he made it to the center of the field in a show of respect to the attending nobles. Young little Idla had gone white as a sheet. He _was_ a beast! Her Septa hadn’t lied. Half his face was melted, red, distorted and swollen, He had a mop of shaggy, dark hair on his head but it did little to hide the deformity that spread from his scalp to neck. He was clean shaven and it made the ruin of his face stand out even more. He had no ear on the burnt side! Little Idla shivered in her seat and hid her face in her nearest brother’s sleeve. She was grateful when the tall man put the helm back on.

 

 

It was the same man laid out before her now. Only, he looked different. Age had been kind to his face. Time had grown his hair long and, if parted to the right, it covered a good portion of the burns. He’d let his beard grow out as well to help with the illusion. The skin itself had used time to thicken and blend in color. And he did have an ear she noted. It just wasn’t much of one. He looked a great deal better now than what her memory provided.  She felt bad for her youthful thoughts but she had, after all, only been a child.

 

 

Once she was done cleaning him she found more clove paste to treat his mouth again. She used her finger to push the paste into his mouth and gasped when he began to reflexively suckle on her finger. He gagged and sputtered at the taste and she laughed. He was in there. He just needed nourishment and rest. She hastily ran to the work bench and scooped up the little jar of honey that was still sitting left over from the food Maddox had brought earlier. She dipped her finger in the honey, offering it to him again. He suckled at it greedily. His tongue was wet and warm. He pulled hard at her finger and it took three times feeding him before she realized her dress was rubbing against her raised nipples. She quickly pulled her finger out of his mouth, blushing furiously and found a wooden spoon to use instead. Once the Maester came back she shoved him right out the door again to bring back broth and warm milk.

 

 

On the third day the fever had not returned but Clegane slept on. Every few hours he would mumble for a time and then pass back out.  They gave him as much broth, honey and milk as he would take.  The wound in his leg had swelled but that was to be expected. The fluids that drained from it still flowed clear of any evidence to indicate that it had begun to fester.  She had left for a very short time to go bathe again and to finally change out of her now ripe dress. When she had returned, fresh and happy, the Maester left her in charge while he took his usual afternoon break outside.

 

 

She hummed a little tune as she reached for the sheet covering his injured leg. She wanted to make sure the stitches weren’t too tight. They would need to be cut if they were.  She had just begun to lift the sheet when a voice called out.

 

 

“The fuck you doing?” Clegane rasped. His voice was thick and crackled from disuse.

 

 

 

She yelped in surprise and dropped the sheet. Then she laughed nervously. He’d startled her. But he was awake! She was beaming at him and all he did was glare.

 

 

“It’s good to see you awake,” she smiled, “my name is Idla Tan-“

 

 

“Didn’t ask your name,” he cut her off, “I asked what the fuck you’re doing.”

 

 

How nice, her mind thought, he was one of _those_ patients. She’d been at this long enough to know most of the harsh words from the sick came from fear and pain. She wouldn’t let him get to her.

 

 

“I was trying to take a look at your leg,” she explained. “It was badly broken and is mending but I need to keep an eye on it for rot.”

 

 

His eyes narrowed, looking her up and down.

 

 

“There a Maester here?” he finally asked.

 

 

“ _I’m_ a Maester,” she said with emphasize.

 

 

He snorted and scowled at her. “Aren’t any woman Maesters,” he sneered.

 

 

“I’m training under a Maester. What would you call me then?” she countered.

 

 

His scowl lessened almost imperceptibly but she was observant. She had to be in her line of work.  He looked to the ceiling in a mocking way before answering, “You’re a witch.”

 

 

“Hmmmm yes, well this witch saved your life so would you like to try again?” She wasn’t going to stand for any name calling.

 

 

“Shit stained bog whore,” he spat at her.

 

 

She stared at him for a second, mouth open in shock at his coarse language.  And then she burst out laughing. A shit stained bog whore? That was a new one. She fell into a chair laughing and coughing. She was caught up in a fit of giggles and she laughed so hard that tears started streaming down her face.  Clegane looked at her like she had grown two heads.

 

 

She tried to calm herself and managed to speak in between her giggles, “Bog whore? I’m sorry. That’s one of the best I’ve ever heard.” She wiped at her eyes with the hem of her dress. 

 

 

“The fucks wrong with you?” he asked genuine confusion in his voice. He’d never had someone on the receiving end of his insults find any humor in them.

 

 

“What? You think I’ve never had a charge call me a nasty name before?” she rolled her eyes at him. “Although I will say they’ve never been as clever as you.”

 

 

He was lost now. He’d woken up horribly sore to find a strange woman lifting a sheet that was covering his body. His naked body he had realized with a start. He had barked at her, demanding answers and had finally decided to be done with her. He gave her a cruel name that should have sent her crying from the room. But she’d laughed at him, rolled her eyes and called him clever. The giant bitch must have hit him fucking hard for the world to go upside down like this. The woman rose and came back near his chest.

 

 

“We really ought to try this again if you can hold your tongue for a moment,” she chided. He was still in too much shock to answer so she continued, “My name is Idla Tanner. You can call me Healer Tanner or Idla if you like but no more bog whore, please. My mentor, Maester Ulchard, and I found you on the side of the road on our way home. We took you in and patched you up as best we could. You’ve been asleep for three days. You’re a guest now, for the time being, on the Quiet Isle and under the protection of the Elder Brother. Your leg was broken and is going to need time to heal.”

 

 

She reached for the sheet again, “It’s important for me to check for rot and to see that the stitches aren’t cutting into your skin.”  She remembered how panicked he had been when he was being held down and things weren’t under his control and added, “May I?”

 

 

 

He didn’t know what to do. No one had ever asked permission from him for anything. Let alone to invade his privacy. They just did or took.

 

 

“If you like I can wait for the Maester but you’re only slowing down your progress by waiting. I have a feeling you want out of that bed as badly as I wish to see you walk again.” He still made no indication that he understood what she was saying. 

 

 

“I assure you, you’re not the first man I’ve seen. I’m not after your maidenhood,” she winked at him.

 

 

He grunted and finally nodded.  Good, she’d found a way to get through to him she thought.  She lifted the sheet and rolled it up so that only the leg was exposed. She began prodding the edges of the wound with her finger.

 

 

“Does this hurt?” she asked him. He shook his head in reply and she nodded, “That’s good.”  She got closer to the gash and inspected the swollen skin and stitches.

 

 

“Not a fucking maiden,” he snapped, catching up to the conversation and realizing she’d taken a stab at his manhood. “Seen more cunts then you have.”

 

 

“I’m sure you have. Is that meant to impress me or scare me?” she questioned, continuing with her work and not even bothering to look at him.

 

 

What in the Seven fucking Hells was wrong with this woman, he cursed. He could get a rise out of anyone but her. His body was hurting and so was his mind. He remembered the little wolf bitch. He had grown something similar to fond of her. He had defended her for fucks sake and she had left him to die a slow death. Stabbed in the back by the only person who had ever resembled something reminiscent of a friend. And before that the Little Bird had stirred things in him he had wanted to forget forever. He had saved her time and time again and when he finally found the courage to take her away, she had refused. He was stewing in a batch of pain and betrayal. He was itching for wine or a fight. He was trying his damndest to gain one of them but she just kept at her task like he was an unimpressive spot on the floor.

 

 

“What’s a tanner’s daughter doing being a healer?” he tried to get more personal. “You talk like a Lady, not a piss thrower’s daughter.”

 

 

“I never said I was a tanner’s daughter,” she told him, drawing the sheet back down over his leg, “that would have been my great, great grandmother. It’s only the family name. My father owns the tannery in Scuttleton, or what’s left of it, and most of the cattle that end up as hides there.”

 

 

“You still talk like a Lady,” he said with disgust.

 

 

“There were five reasonably well off households in our village. We all shared a Maester and Septa. I don’t have a title, only a small education. You’re more Ser than I am Lady,” she argued with him, thinking back to how much venom he had for titles even when he had been at his worst.

 

 

“Oh, an educated woman,” he snarled, “I do beg pardon milady.”

 

 

“I was highborn enough to have the time to learn but low born enough to not be of any real value as breeding stock. I’m the seventh child in a household full of boys. My father didn’t really care what became of me as long as I got out of his hair. Call me a Lady again and I’ll forget to offer you the chamber pot later,” she warned.

 

 

He smirked. He was getting somewhere now. She turned to a large wooden table behind her and took up a skin. His mouth watered but he was then disappointed when she offered him water from it. 

 

 

“Fuck water!” he shouted, batting the skin away from his face, “Bring me wine.”

 

 

She frowned. “The Maester says nothing but water for the first week.”

 

 

“Fuck the Maester,” he growled, “Bring me wine or I’ll forget about the chamber pot as well.”

 

 

Was he threatening to purposely soil the sheets? She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. He was giving her a headache.

 

 

She took a calming breath and thought back on a time when her favorite barn cat had stepped into one of the small fox traps on the property. She had tried to comfort the wretched beast and it had nearly clawed her eyes out. It had been so blind with pain and terror that it didn’t know her anymore and couldn’t recognize kindness. She looked at him and saw that behind his words and malicious sneers his eyes looked the same as the cat’s had.

 

 

She took one more breath before she addressed him, “Clegane, listen to me” -his head snapped up when she used his name- “I’m not denying you anything to hurt you. I want you to get better as fast as you can. Wine will slow your progress. I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”

 

 

Something in his eyes shifted. He looked lost and a bit helpless. He sniffed in disapproval of her words. She felt sorry for him and offered a compromise. “If you can hold down water and solid food today I will bring you wine tomorrow,” she winked at him again and added, “I won’t tell the Maester. You and I can have a secret.”

 

 

She knew one cup wouldn’t truly set back his recovery and if it could gain her his trust it would be worth it. She reached her hand out to him to shake on their deal. He looked at it for a long minute before moving his good hand underneath the one still in a sling. But he did hold her eyes and nod at her. She offered the water once more and he took it from her hands, holding it himself to drink. That was good


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, instead of dragging this out for 10 more chapters just to get through two weeks, we’re going to get through time with drabbles. I’m just as eager to get back to smut as you are but I like letting these two play and bond as well. Let me know which one you liked best! There’s still a few more chapters to go before we get caught up in the time line. I’ve got some Sandor/Idla angst I need to get through. 
> 
> I had SO much fun writing this one!
> 
> I had Unwell by Matchbox 20 going round in my head when I wrote this.

She was elated to see the Maester and show the aged man that he was now awake. She prattled on for awhile and then went to work on something at the table. The Maester asked him only for basic information. Name, where he was from, and what had been his last occupation were all the questions asked of him. The old man didn’t push him for lengthy explanations, saying he needed rest and that the Elder Brother would want to talk with him in a few days. He drifted off to sleep.

 

 

He woke to her tapping his shoulder. She’d brought him bread with butter and a bowl of thin gruel. She sat in a chair near him, balancing a tray on her knees. Her food looked better. She saw him gazing at her tray and apologized for the plain meal he’d been given. It was for the best she said. If his stomach could tolerate it he could have better fare tomorrow. When the Maester went to his room she tore her raspberry pastry in two and set the larger portion on his tray. He ate it without looking at her.  He shoved the empty bowl at her and let sleep have him.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

He slept like a hibernating bear.  He’d never felt so tired in all his life. It took a lot out of a man; mending bones, fighting off rot and healing bruises. She flitted around him nearly all the time, checking on a wound here, a bruise there. Seeing if he was hot or cold, thirsty or hungry. She slept in the bed next to his at night. It made him uncomfortable being the center of her attention.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

She leaned down over him to look at the healing sore on his neck. She smelled good. Like a flower he couldn’t identify. He could see down her dress. Her tits were as pretty as the rest of her. He was a man after all. And, there it was. His cock was still alive at least. There was one thing that still functioned properly. He looked to the ceiling, then down her dress again, then finally back at the ceiling and thought of maggots crawling out of Gregor’s head on a spike. The rush of blood to his cock settled and he breathed a little easier.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

She brought his evening meal just as she had the previous night. The Maester removed the sling on his arm and turned in early that evening. They were left to eat alone. As soon as the door clicked into place she swapped the water cup on his tray for the wine cup on hers. She kept her promises. He thought that perhaps she wasn’t completely terrible. And then he felt guilt over finding something to respect in another woman that wasn’t the Little Bird. He stabbed at the meat on his plate and only answered her questions with grunts.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

He watched her work. Now that he was healing at a quick pace, she had begun to go back to a more normal routine. She brought him his afternoon and evening meals but then she would work on salves and tonics or drying herbs. Sometimes she would sit by the fire and read. She offered to read to him. He told her to piss off. She still slept in the bed next to his.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

The pot of whatever she was making cracked into several pieces while she stirred. The paste inside splattered all over the table, her chest and arms.  The wooden spoon in her hand dripped with the thick slop.

 

 

“Blast it all!” she swore and he laughed. It was the first time he’d had a genuine laugh in this new place.  Her eyes seethed at him which made him laugh harder.

 

 

“That’s no way to curse,” he told her. 

 

 

She flicked the wooden spoon with a twist of her wrist and sent some of the mess over to him. It smacked him right in the face.

 

 

“Fucking cuntrag!” he hollered, wiping his face with the sheet. She covered her hand with her mouth, shocked at his words. He could hear her giggling behind her hand though.  

 

 

He used a gruff tone to tell her, “That’s how you curse.”

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

She surprised him with clothing. Nothing too grand. Simple clothing, not a Lord’s dressings she had teased him. The Maester had taken his measurements in his sleep and she had gotten the other women of the Isle to help her make a large nightshirt, a pair of breeches and three linen shirts that tied peasant style in the front.  She was terrible at making clothing, she explained. Especially men’s clothing and she hoped they would be alright. He was sincerely thankful to have something to wear but he didn’t know how to say it. So he grunted softly at her and hoped she understood the difference in his tone. She noticed him wince and struggle to pull the nightshirt over his head. His right shoulder was stiff as a drumhead. She suggested that she try to rub out the stiffness. He told her to go back to work.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

He woke to find her sitting in a chair, hunched over in concentration. There was a strange young man in brown robes he’d never seen before in a chair opposite her. She held the man’s hand in her lap while she used small tweezers to pull thorns out of his palm. The man was looking straight down her dress. He knew he’d done the same thing but this man was leering.  This man didn’t avert his eyes after a moment. This man kept on staring and it bothered him that the other man was taking advantage of her without her knowledge.

 

 

“Stare at them any harder boy, they’ll start leaking milk,” he rumbled.

 

 

The boy’s mouth flapped up and down silently while his eyes flew to the ceiling. She looked down at her chest, blushed and pulled the neckline of her dress up. They all continued in silence and he glared at the boy the entire time to make certain his eyes never left the ceiling. Broken leg or not, he’d kick the boy’s teeth in if he ever dared to take an eyeful of her like that again. Once the boy had left she looked straight at him.

 

 

“Why did you stop him?” she asked.

 

 

He turned his face to the opposite wall and shut his eyes.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

A week after he first woke up, a man barely any older then he was came to the sick house, introducing himself as the Elder Brother. A title of respect only was the explanation. The man was dressed in a plain brown robe like the obnoxious, leering twat had been. The Elder Brother asked much the same as the old Maester had. Basic information but he did probe a bit deeper. Sandor was a name not often heard. Did he know the meaning behind it? When he said he did not the other man smiled and said he would tell him one day. He was asked if he enjoyed his past profession. He could only shrug his shoulders. It had kept a roof over his head, food in his belly and given him an outlet for the unending fountain of rage inside him. What did it matter if he enjoyed it or not? The Elder Brother simply smiled at him or nodded and finally took his leave, saying he could stay as long as he was healing. After that they would talk more about his future. What fucking future he had asked the man. The Elder Brother tsked at him for cursing, saying it was a tool used by those too blinded by anger to say what they truly meant. He scowled at the door for an hour after the man left.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

The woman and Maester were helping him slowly shuffle to the door. The splint was still in place and would remain so for another week they had told him. But he was going mad lying in that bed and they had finally relented to let him try for the door with their assistance. He had no idea how an old man and a woman were keeping him up. They were much stronger then they looked. His limp leg practically trailed behind him as he used the good one and their support to all but drag his body to the door. He cursed up a storm the entire way. The Maester clicked his tongue at him but the girl only tucked her head deeper into the crook of his arm and tried to hide her laughter. By the time they reached their goal he was shaking and panting. Sweat was rolling off of him but he had made it. He exchanged the old man for the door frame and allowed the girl to remain under his other arm.

 

 

He breathed in the scent of fresh air. He enjoyed the smell of grass and the coming rain mixed with her perfume. The sun was starting to dip low. It set the horizon on fire. She didn’t say a word. He realized he was in a disgustingly romantic position.  One that was never supposed to exist for the likes of him.  Had he been a weaker man he might have wept.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

Fuck. He needed the chamber pot. Urgently. And only the girl was available. He’d been lucky until now to always have the Maester or the little lads nearby to shout at when he’d needed it before. Fuck it all, he couldn’t wait.

 

 

“Girl,” he barked at her. She was busy at her table as usual. She ignored him.

 

 

He grumbled and rolled his eyes. “Idla,” he called and she looked at him, “Need the pot.”

 

 

She grinned at him and rushed over to grab the small pot under the bed. She reached for the sheet and he used his good leg to kick at her.

 

 

“The fuck you doing?” he screeched, ignoring the high pitch his voice had taken. He sounded like a goddamn woman.

 

 

“I’m only trying to help,” she giggled, “I’m not after your precious maidenhood.”

 

 

“Not a damned maiden!” he bellowed, “Give it here woman. I can do it on my own!”

 

 

She handed him the pot and stood nearby while he maneuvered it under the sheet. She stayed in place. Was she going to fucking watch?

 

 

“Go away,” he told her, “can’t piss with you hovering.”

 

 

She snorted and walked over to the table, turning her back. And, buggering hell, he still couldn’t find relief.

 

 

“I said go away,” he snapped, “Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

 

 

She turned around and he saw anger churning in her eyes. He’d never seen her angry before. Flustered and irritated, yes, but not angry. 

 

 

“Don’t call me stupid,” she hissed, “I take a lot of mouth from you but I won’t stand here and have you insult my intelligence. I’m smarter than you, you great ox. You don’t strike me as cruel. Not deep down. Calling me stupid is cruel. Enjoy your piss.” She slammed the door on her way out.

 

 

He didn’t know what to make of that. He hadn’t meant to anger her. Only tease as they had been for the past few days. He’d overstepped a line he didn’t know had been drawn. He was angry at her. Then angry at himself. Then he realized she had said he wasn’t cruel. He swallowed down the fleeting shot of shame that ran through him and set about tending to what had started all of this.

 

 

Once he was finished, he concluded she was right. He was the stupid one as he sat alone, holding a steaming pot of piss.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

He had to hold the damn pot for an hour before the Maester returned. He waited another hour and she didn’t come back. It got on in the evening and she still wasn’t there. He grew angrier at both her and himself. At dusk she arrived, late, with supper. He didn’t give voice to the part of him that felt relief that she had come back. She gave him his tray and sat in her usual chair with hers. She didn’t speak to him. The Maester must have sensed something was off for he excused himself saying he was going to take a long bath.

 

 

He didn’t know much about women but the way she was tearing her bread into minuscule pieces told him she was still upset. He didn’t want her to be angry. Mortified, it dawned on him that he wanted to see her smile again. At him. 

 

 

The proper thing to do would be to apologize. He cringed at the idea. He’d never apologized for anything to anybody. He’d only felt like doing so once before when he’d snarled at the little she wolf, saying he should have never laid eyes on her. He felt the same shame now as he had then. They were simple words to say. Why couldn’t he force them past his throat?  He did the best he could instead.

 

 

“Never had any proper learning,” he told his plate of food. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye to see she was giving him her attention. “Had a shared Maester, like you did. By the time I was old enough to go _this_ happened,” he explained, pointing to his burns. 

 

 

“I tried to go after but no one could stand to look at me. It wasn’t worth it. Turned soldier instead,” he finished.

 

 

She’d stared at him the whole time. There was a look in her eyes. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t disgust either. He’d seen enough of both to know that wasn’t what she felt. There was something else. She put her tray on the floor and rose from her chair. Slowly she leaned down to him, making sure he was aware of her actions. She placed a single, soft kiss on his forehead and went back to her seat. He tried very hard not to feel anything at all. She’d woken up an onslaught of feelings and he wasn’t prepared for it.

 

 

“Do you know your letters?” she asked him, settling back into her chair and starting her meal. She was eating. That was good. She’d accepted his words in place of an apology.

 

 

“Know enough to read maps and inn signs,” he answered, “and the whorehouse rules.”

 

 

“Important knowledge indeed,” she taunted.

 

 

He dug into his own meal. “Something came out of watching over the sniveling little shit,” he said with his mouth full, referring to Joffrey.

 

 

She watched him eat for a few minutes. “Would you like some books?” she asked, “I have a few that might interest you, seeing as you’re going to be in that bed a bit longer.”

 

 

He shrugged. He didn’t much care for books but she was right. He was fucking _bored_. She promised him she would bring him some the following day. Then she smiled right at him and he felt a stab in his heart.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

She brought the books as she said she would. She kept her promises. He was expecting epic romances with knights and fair maidens. Instead, she gave him several thick texts. One was about birds. Another about flowers and herbs. All with lots of pictures and simple notes to the side. The third one was about the muscles and bones that lay beneath a man’s skin. He liked that one best.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

He watched her while she slept. She was still adamant about sleeping in the bed next to his. She said she would stop when he could walk on his own. He didn’t need to sleep as often now and he found himself alone with his thoughts some nights. The shadows on the ceiling took on strange shapes and reminded him of dark thoughts. He watched her and felt better. She would sigh in her sleep. Sometimes she would snore lightly or give a pleasant little noise. Tonight her brow was wrinkled and she looked distressed. He wished he could get out of the bed on his own and smooth the tension away with his hand. He was fucking lost he thought. This was the Little Bird all over again. There was no way this bright woman was going to give him the time of day once he was healed. This was going to break him.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

The door burst open and she entered the room like a wind tunnel. She had several small sacks and a cast iron skillet in her hands. She was grinning like a bloody cat with cream.

 

“The fuck you doing now?” he questioned but in a soft tone.

 

She dumped all of it on the work bench except for a tiny muslin bag. She flew over to him and grabbed his face in both her hands. For a torturous moment he thought she was going to _kiss_ him.

 

 

But she only squeezed him gently before dropping her hands and squealing in delight, “I found mushrooms! I’m going to cook for us!”

 

 

She dumped the entire contents of her little bag into his lap. His groin was now covered by a small hill of black trumpets and hen of the woods. She gathered up a bowl of water and handed it to him along with a paring knife, instructing him to cut the mushrooms in half and put them in the water to rinse.

 

 

“Not a scullery maid,” he groused, taking up the knife and cutting anyway. He didn’t have much else to do.

 

 

She paid no mind to his complaint and went about pulling other items from her sacks. There were carrots, parsnips, onion, garlic and lard. There was bread, butter and cheese and from one of the sacks came a fat, skinned rabbit. He nearly drooled down his chin.

 

 

After she was done chopping and slicing, she tramped down on the fire so that only a bed of hot coals remained. She set the skillet on the coals and put a large spoonful of lard in it to begin melting. The onions and garlic went in first, followed by the cubed vegetables. The rabbit was next to go in the mix and a few cups of water so that it could all stew for awhile. He was finished with his task and she took the bowl from him. She started to brush the dirt leftover from the mushrooms out of his lap and he pushed her hands away.

 

 

“Thought you weren’t interested in that,” he chided lightly. Her good mood was spreading. She blushed and went to dump out the water from the bowl. She sorted through the herbs hanging from the ceiling, finding several she liked and tossed them in with the rabbit. He was sure this is what heaven smelled like. His stomach rumbled. Food was good. Not many bad memories were tied up in food. It was hard to find fault in a good, hot meal.

 

 

When she was satisfied with the progress of her cooking, she put the mushrooms in last. She let it sit for what seemed like an eternity before finally stirring and tasting it, nodding in approval.  She brought bowls to the skillet and ladled out a huge portion, salting it and handing it to him before getting another smaller portion for herself.  He didn’t wait long enough for it to cool before he started gulping down the broth. He burnt his tongue but didn’t care. He hadn’t had a meal this good since the palace. The tiny farmer’s daughter couldn’t match this.  There was only one thing that could make this better and he froze in astonishment when she pressed a glass of wine into one of his hands.

 

 

She was puzzled that he had stopped. “Is something wrong with it?” she asked, sniffing at her own portion. He had no words. None at all to tell her how kind she was being. Nothing to express how he truly didn’t deserve this. No way to explain to her that he was so confused by the things she made him feel that it all ultimately turned to the only thing he did understand. Anger.

 

 

“It’s alright,” he sniffed indifferently. Seven Hells, his voice had gone tight and raspy. He drained the wine cup and tried his best to ignore her. She looked at him in that funny, non pitying way of hers.

 

 

“Ít _is_ alright” she said, repeating him but not meaning the same thing at all. She wasn’t talking about the food any longer. She squeezed his shoulder and then took his cup to refill it for him. She let him eat the rest of his meal in peace.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

She set a tray down in front of him but this one held no food.  There was a razor, a small pair of scissors, soap, a short bristled brush, a bowl of hot water, a folded cloth and a comb.

 

 

“You’re starting to look like your namesake,” she explained. She put a hand mirror beside him. “Be careful with it,” she warned, “it was my mother’s.” And then she let him do as he liked while she busied herself at the huge work table.

 

 

He took his time, trimming his beard and working the razor around the edges to give it a better shape. He took extra care in shaving off the spot on his chin he preferred to leave bare. It was probably the one thing he could say he felt any vanity towards on his face. He knew he wasn’t much to look at but he did have a sense of pride no matter what others thought. He had to lather up twice to get through the mess it had become.

 

 

His hair was a bit easier. It was fine and though it showed dirt easily at least it didn’t tangle and gnarl like hers. He had seen her struggling with it in the mornings. He combed through his within a minute. When he was finished she came over to take the tray from him.

 

“Much better,” she clucked, “You’ll have all the ladies swooning in no time.”

 

 

He let out an irritated sigh. He felt patronized. There weren’t going to be any ladies doing anything to him and they both knew it. Or should know it. She did know it, didn’t she?

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

It was an hour before dawn as far as he could tell. He was trying to let her sleep and it was killing him. Today would mark a fortnight since he had woken up here. Today was the day they had told him he could be free of the splint.

 

 

She’d pulled out the large stitches last night, putting smaller, tighter ones in their place now that the swelling had gone down. They no longer dripped oil into the wound and he was glad. The fucking stuff burned and stank. Now all they did was rub the oil on his mending skin twice a day.

 

 

“Girl,” he whispered. She stayed asleep. The sun was rising and he wanted the splint off. Now.

 

 

“Idla,” he called with more volume. He thought she was ignoring him for not using her name. She slept on. He threw one of his pillows at her head. She woke with a start.

 

 

“Mmmmfuckyoudoin,” she mumbled while yawning and stretching. He barked out a laugh. She’d been paying too much attention to him.

 

 

“The sun’s up. It’s been two weeks,” he told her, “Take it off.”

 

 

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and got up to do as he asked. The Maester had woken as well due to the noise and came out to help her. Once the splint was off he demanded to go to the door.  She turned her back to him while the Maester helped him into the only pair of breeches that he owned. Like they had done several times before, he leaned on both of them to get to the door. Only this time he could bend the bad leg and put weight on it for just a moment. He hobbled to the door with a little more ease than he had done a week ago. The Maester knew by now to let him grab onto the door frame once they had reached it. She stayed in place under his other arm to watch the sunrise with him. He was weak this time as he felt a tear slip down his face. He wiped it away on his shoulder before she noticed.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

 

She brought him a massive plate of runny eggs, fried tomatoes and fatback in celebration of his small triumph. The Maester had dragged a chair outside for him and he sat basking in the sun while she went off to fetch him breakfast.  He tore into his food with gusto and she laughed in happiness with him. She sipped on tea and told him how they would get him crutches next so he could wander around on his own. They’d find a way to get him to the baths as well so he could have a proper soak. He thought that, just for this moment, his life wasn’t so wretched.

 


	9. Chapter 9

She kept her promises. She arranged the bath and brought him crutches within days of saying that she would. He seemed a man of few words, preferring actions to speak for him and so, she followed his lead and did the same. She found him surprisingly easy to get along with as long as things were kept uncomplicated. He was blunt, course and gruff, but there was also a hidden humor and a gentleness of sorts within him. She treated him fairly and honestly. It seemed to work well for both of them.

 

 

He had driven her to true anger only once. She felt the tongue lashing she had given him was well deserved. She didn’t often lose her temper but when she did she pitied the person on the receiving end of it. It had taken her several hours to clear her head after she had stormed out of the room. She couldn’t stand it when people assumed she was of little intelligence. She had worked damned hard to be where she was and she wasn’t going to let anyone insult her sense of self worth. 

 

 

When she had returned to him she was still upset but not as angry as when she had left him. He had frowned at his meal and looked like a lost little boy to her. He sighed, pushing food around his plate and finally spoke to her. He didn’t offer an outright apology but she saw what he was trying to do. He offered her a bit of his past in place of words he couldn’t speak. He was deeply private and the sad story he shared moved her.  And since he couldn’t outright say that he was sorry she offered him a kiss in place of spoken forgiveness.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

Once word had spread that the newest arrival to the Isle was well and kicking he had received visitors. Merkel and Pentnook were first, explaining to him how they had helped carry him from the road to wagon. He shook their hands uncomfortably and grumbled something close to thanks. They told him to come visit them at stables as soon as he was ready, their eyes shining with a secret.

 

 

Alva, the bakestress brought him all the pastries he could stomach after Idla had let it slip that he was always stealing them off of her tray. He looked at the bakestress with blatant distrust and confusion but still ate five of them straight away. The older woman was quite motherly to anyone she could thrust her affections upon. She had no children of her own and anyone younger than her was fair game.

 

 

The Elder Brother was next. He didn’t stay long or talk much. He had only stopped in to check that all was well.  The robed man took her arm when he was leaving, bidding her to join him on the stoop.

 

“The new charge is doing well,” he stated.

 

 

“He is. He should be walking on his own in another fortnight,” she agreed knowing that he wanted her to say more. The head of the Isle had a way of pushing people to talk more than they wanted or expected to.

 

 

“He’s quite tolerable if you take time to work with him,” she continued and the Elder Brother only stared, waiting for her to fill the silence.

 

 

“He seems to have had a hard life from what I can gather. There aren’t many good memories written down in his book.”

 

 

“And so you find him tolerable?” the Brother questioned her, a knowing sparkle in his eye.

 

 

“Very,” she agreed while stepping back inside, effectively ending the conversation.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

Brother Brookes, the one Sandor had caught looking down her dress, came to visit her specifically. He had a handful of wild violets in one hand and a bowl of strawberries in the other. He was sorry, he told her, for his atrocious behavior and he promised not to do it again, all while stealing quick glances over to the brute of a man in the room with them. She took pity on him and forgave him, taking both offerings from him. She sniffed the flowers and set the strawberries aside. She always had a terrible reaction when ever she ate them but it was kind of the young man to think of her. She’d give them to Sandor or the boys later on as she had done in the past whenever the sweet berries had managed to make it onto one of her trays.  She heard a noise of complete disgust come from Clegane’s side of the room.

 

 

“She can’t eat them you stupid twat,” he barked at the Brother, “makes her itch.”

 

 

She couldn’t decide which made her happier; the fact that he was once again standing up for her or the fact that he had paid enough attention to her to remember an important detail about her.  Brother Brookes blushed to the roots of his hair and excused himself hastily. Sandor went back to reading one the newest books she had given him and said no more.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

 

The crutches gave him a new found freedom. She took a walk with him everyday. He walked with the little scholars. He walked with the Maseter. He walked alone. Every day a little longer. Every day a little farther. The exercise made him eat like a horse and sleep like the dead. He’d made it to the gardens and could now maneuver the stairs to the bath on his own. He was strong of body and mind, pushing himself to heal quickly. He would only need the crutches for another week or so. She was both delighted and distraught to see him progress with such speed. She had said she would only stay in the bed next to his until he could walk again unaided. Their current sleeping arrangement was already pushing the boundaries of decency and she knew she would have to return to her own room soon. She didn’t quite know why but the thought of not having him near her at night set her down into a deep melancholy.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

She woke from a lovely dream. It was still dark, no where near dawn. What had woken her?  He was moving in his bed. Limbs twitching and head snapping left and right. Oh. She’d had enough nightmares her self to recognize what was happening. He started to make noises in his sleep. No words. Just troubled sounds from his throat.  Should she let him ride it out or wake him? He wasn’t usually keen on being touched. But then he let out a sigh that sounded dangerously close to tears and she made up her mind.

 

 

There was a candle near the bed and she went to light it. Then she thought better of it. He had never spoken on how he came to have only half a face but she knew burns when she saw them. Perhaps a fire, no matter how small, wasn’t the best way to wake him. She set the candle back down and carefully made her way over to his bed.  She sat down next to him and touched his hand.

 

 

“Sandor,” she spoke gently, “Come on. You’re alright. Wake up now.”

 

 

She rarely had a chance to use his given name. This might actually be the first time she had done so. He knew when she was talking to him so she didn’t need to speak it to have his attention. She wasn’t going to call him by his house name now. And she would never call him Hound. She understood the reasons behind the name but still loathed it. It wasn’t right to constantly compare a man to an animal. Sooner or later he would start to believe it.

 

 

He was still caught up in his dark world so she placed her other hand on his chest and shook him a bit, calling his name again. This time he woke with a deep breath and sat up. She had leaned down over him and they knocked foreheads.

 

 

“Ouch!” she cried while he spat out a curse at the same time. They took a moment to rub at their heads and then they both looked at each other and laughed.

 

 

“Better?” she asked.

 

 

“Aye,” he agreed.

 

 

And that’s when she became aware that her hand was still in his. He was unconsciously rubbing his thumb along the back of it. As soon as she noticed, he noticed and the moment was gone as he drew his hand back so fast it was like she had stuck him with a pin. He looked everywhere but at her and finally rolled over on his side so he was no longer facing her.

 

 

“Go back to bed, Healer,” he told her flatly.

 

 

Something clenched inside of her. It was in her stomach and heart at the same time. She was lost she thought.  She’d gone and let feelings take hold of her for the man. She had a short-lived moment of romanticism and imagined herself making him look at her so she could tell him how wonderful she thought he was. However, he was clearly finished with their interaction. Common sense told her he would spit or laugh in her face for saying such a tender declaration out loud. Seeing if he was open to the idea of he and she was going to take time and effort on her part but she was up for the challenge. She would let him be now, though. She’d pushed enough for one evening. She sighed, squeezed his shoulder and went back to bed as he had instructed.

 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

 

“Healer Tanner, may we be excused?” Maddox asked with pleading eyes.

 

 

“We’ve finished everything you asked us to do,” added Quintin.

 

 

“You restocked the hay fever tea?” she drilled them. They nodded their heads. “And stacked all the fire wood out back, brought in new water, changed the sheets and swept the floor?” she pressed them. They kept nodding their heads the whole time.

 

 

“Let them be, woman,” Sandor rumbled from his bed, “They’ve earned a rest.”

 

 

She grinned and turned both boys around telling them to get out of her hair.  They tore off from their place by her and leapt onto the bed next to Sandor’s. The one she usually slept on. They bounced in their seats, badgering the man with questions. She liked this routine. In the mornings the boys would come and help with the chores. As a reward of sorts they could go sit with Sandor after and hear tales about battles and warriors.

 

 

They were graphic recollections. He didn’t shy away from telling them any of the horrors he had seen and done. They looked at him in awe and she was both happy for them and heartbroken for him. The little ones didn’t understand what it was like to truly live through such stories.

 

 

The first time it happened had been when Maddox, the braver of the two, went right up to him and asked what it was like to put that great sword of his through a man. Sandor had looked at him with narrowed eyes and then told the boy to sit.  He asked the little lad if he had ever butchered an animal. Yes, of course he had Maddox assured him. It was exactly like that he told the boy. Men on the field of battle were nothing more than stock to be butchered.  You simply drew blood where you could and watched them die.

 

 

And from that point on the little scholars nearly begged everyday to be allowed to sit with him for awhile. She said it was fine as long as they never repeated any of the foul words that peppered his speech. He could only tolerate their pestering for ten or so minutes at first. She could tell he was done with them when his voice went from warm to gruff and harsh. She would shoo them away when she sensed he was finished. Now, he was usually able to talk for an hour before he got tired of them. Sometimes less when he stumbled upon a memory that made him go silent and stare off at the wall. At those times she would send the boys outside. She would brush the back of her hand against his arm before returning to her work, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

 

They’d made it to the edge of the garden today. It was the farthest she’d ever been with him on one of their walks. They could see the small hut of the Isle’s Stable Master and beside that the stables themselves. Beyond that, the road curved and led to the horse and livestock fields.  No one had mentioned the great black horse he had been found with. They were all saving the news as a surprise. He seemed gloomy of late and she decided that maybe seeing the steed would cheer him up.

 

 

“Would you like to go to the stables today?” she asked, “You must be bored with the garden by now and Brothers Pentnook and Merkle might be there.”

 

 

He took the bait and shrugged his shoulders at her. She had learned that a shrug from him meant one of two things. Either he was uncomfortable with the subject at hand and didn’t want to answer or he meant an outright yes. He had no difficultly saying what he didn’t want but seemed incapable of expressing himself when he truly longed for something.  

 

 

“Race you?” she teased, smiling at him.

 

 

“Shut up,” he growled back, in a soft tone. He picked up his pace though, so that she had to walk briskly in order to keep up. His stride was much longer than hers even with the crutches to slow him down. He had actually managed to pull ahead of her as the road sloped downhill to the stables.

 

 

They never made it into the building. He had caught sight of the black horse off in one of the fields and had, impossibly, doubled his pace. He was well ahead of her now and she let him go. This wasn’t a moment for them to share. It was his alone.

 

 

He found the gate to the field and somehow managed to open it while hollering, “Stranger! You sack of walking horse shit, get over here!”

 

 

The stallion kicked and bucked like an unbroken yearling before galloping over to him. It barely slowed its pace when it neared its master and connected its head with his chest, knocking him to the ground. She grimaced, wondering how his leg had taken the fall but then she heard him laugh. He bellowed with laughter and she thought it was the most thrilling thing she had ever heard. The horse had him on his back and it was nuzzling at his head and chest while he scratched at its ears. She stayed outside the field, letting them have their space.

 

 

“How did you get him here?” he shouted to her and she knew it was alright to approach them.

 

 

“I gave him nearly an entire bushel of apples and cursed at him,” she explained once she was near.

 

 

“Aye, that’ll do it,” he said from underneath the horse’s head.

 

 

“I was too busy stitching you up to stable him. Brother Gillaim tried and managed to get the saddle off of him but lost half an ear in the process. We’ve let him have run of the field since then.”

 

 

He shook with laughter at that. She’d never seen him like this. She wanted to kiss the horse for bringing him such joy. The steed nickered, settling a bit and he sat up.

 

 

“Do you want a help?” she offered, holding out her hand. He shook his head.

 

 

“Watch,” he told her.

 

 

“Horse! Kneel!” he said in stern tone. The steed obeyed him, bending down onto one of its front legs. He grabbed a hold of its mane and when he tugged, the horse pulled him upright so he could get his feet under him. She was impressed. Stranger was indeed a warhorse.

 

 

“Did you train him to do that?” she questioned.

 

 

“Course I trained him,” he sounded almost insulted that she would dare to suggest he hadn’t.

 

 

“How long did it take?” She knew nothing about training horses. She knew only how to ride on a mare.

 

 

“A week maybe. He catches on faster than most.”

 

 

“You’ve trained other horses?”

 

 

 

He nodded, leaning his weight on Stranger and patting him on the neck. Well, that was interesting news. She tucked that bit of information away for later.  She moved up beside him and offered the radishes she’d hidden in her pocket to the horse.

 

 

“You’ll spoil him,” he warned.

 

 

“Says the man who lets an old woman feed him ten pastries a day,” she countered while she continued to feed the black beast.

 

 

He snorted at her observation. They heard noise behind them and turned to see the elderly Stable Master, Brother Godfry, being helped down the slope to the fields by Brother Merkel. The Stable Master was positively ancient and would not be able to continue at his post for much longer.  He had Pentnook and Merkel to help but it still wasn’t enough these days. An idea formed in her head and she made note to speak with the Elder Brother as soon as possible. 

 

 

Stranger had begun to snort and prance when the two Brothers approached so Idla scooped up Sandor’s crutches for him and the two made their way over to the gate. There was conversation for a bit and then Sandor alone led Stranger into the stables. The horse nibbled at his hair and whinnied in delight the entire time. He emerged some time later and promised he would be back morning and night to tend to his steed.

 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

He had managed a walk to the stables and back without the crutches. He had a severe limp and was frustrated but she assured him it would get better with time. She didn’t make false promises though, warning him that he may carry a slight limp with him for the rest of his life.  He spent hours either sitting near the garden or at the stables and took long, bare back rides on Stranger. The devoted steed would perform his kneeling trick to make it easier for Sandor to mount.  

 

 

She had spent a final night in the sick house, staying up until it was nearly the next morning listening to him in his sleep. She was truly going to miss this. They had grown close in a way. She didn’t know how she was going to sleep alone in her room without his breath to keep her company.

 

 

After she spent the first night away from his side he snapped at everyone the following morning. Then he took to Stranger’s back and stayed out till it was past dark. She was terrified that he had left the Isle for good and had fought back tears when she saw him ride back.

 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

 

Later on that same night she made her last round of the evening, checking on their stocks and seeing if there was anything Sandor needed before she left. He was sitting on his bed, swinging his sword in lazy half circles in front of him. The Maester had deemed his shoulder healed enough to bear some weight and he was eager to use his sword arm again. He could barely lift it for more than five minutes a few days ago. Now he swung it for thirty or more. His strength amazed her.

 

 

He laid the sword on the bed and punched at his shoulder. She rolled her eyes. She knew it was stiff with injury, causing him pain sometimes, but the stubborn man wouldn’t let her touch him and it wasn’t in her nature to give up.

 

 

“Is it still bothering you?” she opened with concern.

 

 

“Tighter than a virgin’s cunt,” he complained. She was getting used to his colorful phrases but that one made her blush.

 

 

“Would you like me to rub it?”

 

 

“What? A virgin’s cunt?” he taunted her. “Whatever pleases the Lady.”

 

 

She groaned. She’d walked right into that. He made her want to beat her head against a wall sometimes.  She wasn’t going to let it go this time though.

 

 

“You need to let me rub your shoulder,” she amended and he scowled at her.

 

 

“You want to be able to swing that sword outside don’t you?”

 

 

He glared.

 

“I’m telling you, if you let me rub out the stiffness you will heal better. It will mend itself faster, it won’t hurt as much and you’ll be able to do more,” she lectured him like the mulish child he was being.

 

 

He pressed his lips into a fine line and looked to the floor. Then he finally, _finally,_ gave her a small nod of consent. She found the best oil on hand for sore muscles and approached him. He was already on the edge of the bed sitting up ram rod straight. She knelt behind him on the bed and put a hand on top of either shoulder.

 

 

“Relax,” she told him, “You don’t need to sit up straight. Sit comfortably.” He didn’t move.

 

 

She sighed, “Sandor, this would be easier if you could try. I’m not-“

 

 

“Not a maiden,” he said in a low, quiet voice before she could finish her half of their own private joke. He showed no sign that he was going to stop sitting like he had a pole up his backside.

 

 

She pulled at his shirt to make the neck line come down his back and poured oil into her hands. She started lightly, just her hands sitting on his skin and he jumped in his seat. She bit her lip and stroked her palms gently up and down his shoulder blade letting him get used to the feel of it. His skin twitched. His muscles were rock hard and she had the distinct impression he was trying his best to not bolt from the room. It was like trying to settle a skittish horse. It was odd behavior for a man claiming to have lain with whores. But then again, her mind told her, this wasn’t what whores did was it?  Maybe he’d never had anyone do this for him before. The thought made her feel a bit ill. He had always been nervous about her touches. Had no one touched the poor man before her? Really touched him and not just taken his seed? The idea made her head swim with both sorrow and fury.

 

 

She used her thumbs to start pressing into his shoulder a bit. Starting at the top near his neck and working her way down and around the curved blade. He let out a deep sigh and sunk down in his seat a bit. She worked, adding more pressure with every pass until the muscles began to warm up and give under her fingers. He felt more like flesh now than solid steel. She made sure to rub her palm in circles around the place where shoulder met arm.  He was solid and hot beneath her hands. The whole damn room had become intolerably hot. Using her knuckles she started to dig into the meat of his shoulder. She used one hand to hold onto his left shoulder, were soft, new skin was forming over the place she had cut out his flesh.  She held him steady and ground her knuckles in as hard as she could. Her deep, penetrating fingers drew a pleased grunt from him and she felt warmth in her belly. Stop it, she told herself, now is not the time. She felt the fibers of his muscles move and heard tiny crackles from within. That was good. She’d gone deep enough and made progress. She started to ease out of the massage, giving lighter, more delicate touches until there was nothing but her fingertips drawing lines down his back.  She let out the breath she’d been holding and patted him on the shoulder before rising from the bed.

 

 

He didn’t say a word and neither did she. Words weren’t needed.  He kept his hands in his lap and his eyes on the floor while she gathered up her bag.

 

 

“It needs to be done twice a week for at least a month,” she told him, slipping back into her Healer role, “Three would be better if you can manage it.”

 

 

He wouldn’t look at her but nodded. She said her good bye’s and left him. She was troubled again by thoughts of him not receiving any comforting touches. It made her angry. He deserved them just like any other man didn’t he?  He had a bark to him that was for certain but other than that there wasn’t a thing to complain about in regards to him. She thought all the women that came before her were complete idiots for not seeing past his face and taking some time to encourage him. But what if there had been no other women? What if it had only been whores? Now, she was truly depressed.  She’d need a good long soak to shake these feelings.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you read this far? If so, I thank you. You seem to like this story so you should go give that little Kudos button a click. And review if you like. I always write back.
> 
>  
> 
> If you didn’t know so already, I have a companion piece up entitled Staring At The Bottom of a Glass. It can stand alone as a one shot but I feel it is vital information to have when reading this story. It’s only one chapter. Give it a go. 
> 
> Haven’t said it in awhile so …I own nothing GOT related.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must come down. . .

He was restless. A wild animal trapped in a cage. The afternoon dragged on while he felt nothing but pent up anger. There was no outlet here beyond swinging his sword at a tree.  It wasn’t the same as striking a man. He’d started taking his meals in the great hall days ago but today he skipped the evening meal and sat in the sick house letting his frustration brew. He didn’t want wine and he didn’t want to ride. He wanted to fight or fuck. Something physical to leave him drained of everything and neither option was available to him.

 

 

Fucking whoreson Elder Brother! Coming to him earlier to snoop and meddle. He loathed talking about his past. There was not one damn thing of worth in it and no good to come out of talking about it. Speaking about the past always dredged up memories that he could never set to rights.

 

 

He had a special place of bitter hatred in his heart for the time his brother had burnt him. The betrayal of both the men of his so called family ate away at him everyday. The loss of the women of his family crushed him. He fucking hated to be reminded of the rage that he could never settle inside him.  

 

 

He had forgotten the wrath for a short while as he healed and Idla had given him her attention. But just as things had started to go well for him she had left him. Not entirely. She hadn’t left the Isle. Only the room they shared but the loss he felt cut deep. Then he’d gotten stronger and more independent. She grew busy with other projects and her life no longer revolved around him. He wanted to break his leg all over again if it meant she would come back. He was aggravated enough as it was but then the Elder Brother had come to the sick house. The cunt had wanted to talk to him of his past and future.

 

 

He’d been staring at a wall for awhile, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists.  He didn’t notice that Idla had entered the room some minutes ago until he felt the bed move. She had taken the chair nearby and propped her feet up on the furs, skimming through a book and chewing her lip.  She looked up from her reading when he turned and smiled at him. She always fucking smiled. Her smile gnawed at the anger inside him. He didn’t understand her, or the Elder Brother, or the entire fucking Isle. They all acted like there was nothing wrong with him. Everything was wrong with him and they all had their heads so far up the arses they couldn’t see it.

 

 

 

 

And she was the worst of them all! Smiling at him like he made her happy. Teasing and talking and always fucking touching him. As if she wanted him to do the same to her. It drove him mad. She was watching him now and he realized she was on his right side. She did that a lot. Sat to his right to address him. He was beyond rage now. How fucking dare she keep looking at it like it was nothing at all?  Constantly rubbing his nose into the fact that he’d never have anything he longed for. He couldn’t take it anymore.

 

 

“Having a good look at it?” he spat at her.

 

 

She immediately looked worried and confused, “Sandor, I don’t under-“

 

 

“My face, bitch! Are you having a good look at it?” he was shouting now.

 

 

She didn’t know why she was getting yelled at and it irritated her. If he wanted to talk that was fine but there was no need to start off screaming at her for nothing.

 

 

“What’s gotten into you? I look at you all the time,” she raised her own voice.

 

 

“Shut up! You’re always there but you never ask. Everyone asks. Or stares. You don’t. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

 

 

Now, she was getting a better sense of what was going on. He’d spoken with the Elder Brother earlier. She knew from her own talks with the man that sometimes one could be left feeling hopeless and heated for a time after. The Brother dug into past wounds that some would rather let be. But the devoted man’s probing was usually for the best in the end. Apparently the conversation had circled around his burns and now she was left to clean up the mess.  She had a sinking feeling in her gut. The man she knew, Sandor, wasn’t with her anymore. A Hound had taken his place.

 

 

She kept her tone as calm as she could and her eyes firm, “I don’t stare because there’s nothing to stare at “–he snorted- “and I never ask because it’s not my place. You want to tell me, go ahead. If not, it changes nothing between us so stop being an ass.”

 

 

He was breathing heavily while giving the bed linens a murderous look. She’d never seen him so enraged. He was shaking. She wanted it to stop. She didn’t know how to help him. She felt weak and powerless.  She tried her best.

 

 

 

 

“I can tell they’re burns,” she started, “I am a Healer you know. The skin looks like it healed long ago so you were young when it happened. They’re deep. And with the damage to the ear I’d say you were either trapped or forced to endure it, yes?”  He didn’t answer and she didn’t need him too. “I don’t ask because I already know enough. If there’s something else I need to know I assume you’ll tell me when you’re ready to. I’m not the Elder Brother. I don’t pry.”

 

 

She got up and sat next to him on the bed.  He could feel the heat of her arm next to his. He wanted to kiss her and make her stay with him. He wanted to hit her and make her understand his pain.  He kept his hands clenched and told her how he was burned years ago. He kept it short and simple. Much like the version he gave the wolf bitch. It made him feel just as empty telling her. His father’s betrayal was always the worst part to get through and when it was over he sat fuming, waiting on her judgment.

 

 

She was quiet for many minutes. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. He turned his face to look at her and saw tears shining in her eyes.

 

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. She touched his arm and added, “I know what it’s like to lose a father’s love.”

 

 

“Piss off!” he sneered, shrugging her hand off of him, “What, he didn’t buy the Lady a pony? Didn’t find you the right suitor? You know fuck all little girl.”

 

 

She stood up fast and smacked him across the face. He was stunned. He’d never had a woman do that before. It stung. Her eyes smoldered with contempt. He stood up as well and was going to push her out of the way so he could leave but she opened her mouth to speak.

 

 

“Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know loss! You don’t know anything about me. You think Sandor fucking Clegane is the only person in all of Westeros to feel pain?” she screamed at him.

 

 

“I watched my mother and brothers die in front of me! Who do you think was next on the raider’s list once Maidenpool fell? I was hog tied and gagged like an animal and put at my father’s feet. They tied him to a chair and made us both watch while ten of them raped my mother.” She gulped for air and continued, “They slit her throat and then I had to watch as one by one they took my brother’s eyes, ears and tongues. They bled them all out in front of us and left!”

 

 

She was crying now. He felt something heavy in his stomach and he burned with shame. This wasn’t at all what he had thought would happen.

 

 

She kept on yelling at him, “I had to lay there in my family’s blood for an entire day before we were found. They let me live to torture my father. To show him his legacy was dead. He has no heirs and no wife to give him more. Only me and I’m not enough!”

 

 

She had dropped back onto the bed and was sobbing now. He stood still and useless. He’d never known how to handle a crying woman and this was beyond anything he had ever experienced.  Maester Ulchard came rushing out of his quarters. The old man gave him a terrible look and took her by her shoulders trying to calm her. She kept on bawling. Huge wracking sobs mixed with sorrowful wails. He felt like the lowest piece of shit in all the Seven Kingdoms. The Maeseter got her to her feet and lead her back to his chambers. The old man shut the door and Sandor was left alone with nothing but the sound of her weeping to keep him company.

 

 

He could hear the Maester trying to soothe her. He heard clinking and more crying. He sat on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. He’d fucked that up properly. There’d be no more smiles for him. He swallowed thickly, stamping down on his disappointment and grief.

 

 

After a few more minutes the sobs stopped and the Maester came out of his room. Idla didn’t follow him. The old man bent down to a low, dust covered cabinet and opened the bottom drawer. The drawer produced two small glasses and a bottle of pear brandy. The Maester poured and offered a glass to Sandor.  He took it gratefully and tossed back the small portion. All the fight had left him the moment she had started crying and now his belly yearned for the burn of liquor. He looked to the Maester with questions in his eyes.

 

 

“She’s resting,” the older man told him, “I gave her tea with essence of nightshade in it. She should sleep for a few hours.” The Maester sat himself down in the chair nearby and sighed.

 

 

“In a way you did her a service,” the elderly man explained. “I was the one who found her and her father. She’s never talked about what happened in Scuttleton. Not that I’m aware of. And I’ve never seen her shed a tear over it. It was high time that she let go of some of her heartache.”

 

 

He frowned and took the bottle of brandy from the Maester’s hands, pouring himself a much larger serving this time.  He drank it in two large gulps and reached for more.

 

 

“You went about it entirely the wrong way of course,” the Maester scolded him, sipping at his own drink, “That was no way to talk to a woman. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

 

 

“Don’t you think I know it?” he roared at the man. “I am. I will be.” He downed the third glass and growled when the Maester wouldn’t give up the bottle for a fourth.

 

 

“If that is true, when she wakes, ask for forgiveness and move on,” the old man tried to council him.

 

 

“She won’t talk to me. Not after this!”

 

 

He threw the glass down and watched it shatter. He marched out of the room, his features stern. He was so furious he forgot to put on his boots and stormed to the kitchens barefoot. He barked at Alva to bring him a wineskin. The bakestress hastily did as he ordered and he drank from it as he stalked off to the horse fields.  By the time he made it to the clearing he was half drunk and his feet were bleeding. The rocks that paved the paths of the Quiet Isle were sharp as knives. He didn’t care. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as his chest did.  He dropped down to a wooden bench near the fence and continued to drink.

 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

 

It was the two little scholars that came after him several hours later. He hadn’t moved from the bench other than to take a piss on one of the fence posts. He’d hit the wooden stump a few times while he was there, breaking the skin on his knuckles. The wineskin had stopped giving an hour ago and he was seriously close to being sober again. It had gone dark. There was a light drizzle coming down and he was starting to get wet. He probably would have stayed there all night if they hadn’t come. He didn’t know if the Healer was still at the sick house anymore. He assumed she was and that he had no where else to go.

 

 

 

 

They both tramped right up to him. Maddox held his boots out to him. “She’s crying again,” the bolder one told him. 

 

 

“She yells at us too,” Quintin chimed in, trying to sympathize, “when we deserve it. But she always forgives us and then hugs us.”

 

 

“Doesn’t work like that between a man and woman,” he told the shy one.

 

 

“Yes, it does,” argued Maddox, “It works exactly the same. Put your boots on and come back.”

 

 

The boy had balls, he thought. Standing up to the likes of him and ordering him about.

 

 

“Don’t think she wants to see me,” he sighed to the lad.

 

 

“She’s crying because she’s worried about you,” Maddox told him slowly like he was dull. The impertinent little shit was rolling his eyes at him now!

 

 

He found it hard to believe she was shedding tears over him but he put his boots on anyway. He had to face her at some point. He was acting the coward by hiding out in the rain. They made it back to the sick house and he braced himself as he walked through the door.

 

 

She was sitting on his bed, big pools of tears swelling in her eyes, while she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. She leapt up when she saw him and dashed across the room. He found himself all but strangled as she jumped up to hug him around his neck. What in Seven Hells was going on?

 

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soggy and broken, “I’m sorry I shouted. I’m sorry I hit you.” She squeezed tighter. He decided that he would never understand women. He had no idea what to do. Her body was pressed close against his and if she didn’t move soon his cock was going to have something to say about it. Eventually, he brought one hand up to touch her back and she let go seemingly satisfied. She was smiling again and his pulse took on a life of its own. It was going so hard and fast he was sure it was now its own being outside of his body.

 

 

“Told you,” Maddox chuckled.

 

 

He cuffed the boy on the back of his head without much force. She had drawn back from him and looked him over with concern in her features.

 

 

“You’re wet,” she stated and, catching site of his hands, added, “and bleeding! What did you do?”

 

 

He shrugged and grunted.

 

 

“Never mind,” she told him, “Go sit by the fire and warm up. I’ll get something for the cuts.”

 

 

“He cut his feet too,” Quintin chirped.

 

 

She shook her head and pushed him towards the fire place. Maddox pulled on Quintin’s sleeve and the two boys left the house.  He took a seat and waited for her to join him. He was still utterly confused by the past few minute’s events so he sat in silence. He had been the one who had done wrong hadn’t he? Then why was she apologizing and making amends? It made no damn sense at all.

 

 

She gathered up a bowl of water, some bandages and a sticky green unguent good for lessening pain and healing small cuts.  She’d been so worried about him. He had pulled dark, hidden anguish from her. She was furious at first but once she’d had time to compose herself, she was grateful he had done so. If anyone could handle her outburst it was him. She instructed him to remove his boots and saw him grimace as he did as she asked. _Foolish man_.

 

 

Gathering up her supplies, she sat herself down at his feet. He looked like that lost little boy again. She took his hands first and wiped them clean before applying the paste to them. She moved onto his feet, using a new cloth to gently wash them first.

 

 

 

 

 

This was all wrong he thought. She was kneeling at his feet like he was a God to be worshipped. He hadn’t even apologized and she was back to treating him kindly. He was profoundly sorry for being the cause of her sorrow and she deserved to hear it. He would try to do better for her.

 

 

“Idla,” he said, using her name to get her to look at him. She paused in her work and did so.

 

 

“Shouldn’t have yelled either,” -she still looked at him so he plowed on- “Wasn’t angry with you. Wasn’t right of me to take it out on you. I’m . . .” he paused and looked at her hands on his knees, “. . . sorry for it.”

 

 

Was he supposed to feel better? He didn’t. He felt vulnerable and exposed. What if she didn’t accept his apology? The last of the wine turned sour in his stomach.

 

 

She moved one hand from his knee at a deliberately slow and measured pace. Placing a finger under his chin she pushed and bid him to look at her. She had that funny look in her eyes as she spoke.

 

 

“I know. I forgive you.”

 

 

He let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. She dropped her hands and went back to her work. Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, he watched her working. She was taking extra care with his feet, her touches feather light as she smoothed the healing unguent on his abused skin.

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

The question left his mouth before he could stop it. She kept on working, her brow wrinkled while she bit her lip. She didn’t look up when she answered him.

 

 

“Our memories may not be the same but that doesn’t mean they aren’t equal in pain. Yours is not any more or less than my own.”

 

 

 

 

It was his turn now to feel tears collect in his eyes. He blinked frantically so they wouldn’t fall.  She made him weak but he didn’t feel resentment over it.  She humbled him which was not something he was used to feeling. He never felt judged by her. She sat quietly when he needed silence and pushed him when he needed to be broken.  She fought just as fierce and loud as he did. He was far more lost than he had first thought. He was going to drown trying to keep her.   

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the reviews, kudos and book marks. This story has over 600 hits! I'm so excited to know there are people giving this story a chance. If you have a moment I would love to hear your thoughts on the story as a whole or a particular chapter. 
> 
> Next chapter will have us caught up in the time line. And plenty of smut as a reward for sticking it out this long. :)

If he was honest about it, he would have to admit that the long conversation with the Elder Brother was not the complete cockup he had first thought it was. Though he had fought with the Healer, she had ultimately forgiven him. It was a heady feeling. Forgiveness was not a concept he was familiar with and hers was the sweetest of all. 

 

Before he’d sunk into anger, the Elder Brother had noted that he was healing well. He still needed time, of course, to mend fully and he was asked if he would consider moving from the sick house. There was an opening for a new Stable Master on the Quiet Isle. Brother Godfrey was too old to continue and deserved a respite in his final years. It had been suggested to the Elder Brother that he was good with horses. The Quiet Isle’s stable consisted of only six mares and Stranger so the work would be satisfying but would not over tax his healing leg. There had been discussion of breeding as well. That would commit him to the Isle for months and possibly years. He had asked the devote man if the Healer would be around that long. The man had smiled at him and suggested that he ask her that himself. After that, the exchange had gone down hill. 

 

It had all culminated to this then. He sat in a small, dry hut with minimal furnishings. He had never had a place to call his own. He’d had his own chambers before, but it was always contained inside someone else’s. This place had been given to him in exchange for fair work. He had earned it. 

 

He had been given new clothing as well. Idla, with assistance, had managed to make him a few more pairs of breeches and shirts. The Elder Brother had given him a set of brown robes as well. He was told that while he wouldn’t be required to take the vows of the Brotherhood, unless he wanted to, it would be appreciated if he would dress as the other men did. He did so. It seemed a small thing to do in comparison to what they had given him already. If he had to go out on his own now he didn’t think he would make it very far. There was still a bounty on his head, the Maester had learned on a supply run, and his leg made it impossible for him to move swiftly. 

 

He asked the Elder Brother one day in the stables why they didn’t turn him in. He was told it wasn’t their place to judge him. It was their duty to show mercy. The Quiet Isle was not a place of wars, alliances and bounties. It was a place of peace and respite. He had proven his worth since coming to them and that was really all there was to it. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She wasn’t acting the same. Not since the night he’d called her awful names and she had slapped his face. She seemed distant and sad. He was worried. She still smiled at him but she would often go quiet, like he did sometimes when he was lost in a memory. When he teased she didn’t laugh as hard. There was a brightness gone from her eyes. He wanted it back. He missed her.

 

He wanted to see her joyful again and didn’t know the first thing about how to go about it. What did men normally do? Pick flowers? Write poetry? Fuck that. That wasn’t him. He sat for an entire afternoon watching Stranger gallop in the fields before it occurred to him. 

 

The following day, before the mid-day meal, he had Alva help him pack a saddle bag full of the Healer’s favorite foods. Cold duck, hard cheese, crusty bread with flavored oils to dip it in, blackberries and raspberries but absolutely no strawberries. All of it went in the saddle bag. The older woman pulled him down to her level before he left, patted him on the cheek and told him he was a good boy. 

 

“For fucks sake, I’m not a boy,” he huffed. He was probably closer in age to the bakestress than he was to Idla. He felt like his cheeks were burning. 

 

He took his collected goods to the stables and threw the saddle bag over Stranger’s quarters. He usually didn’t use reins when he rode bare back but he slipped a cord of leather around the horse’s neck in case the Healer needed it. After mounting his steed, he made his way to the gardens where he knew she’d been working all morning. She saw him approach and waved. 

 

“You know how to ride?” he called to her. She nodded her head, rising and wiping the dirt from her hands. 

 

“Bareback?” he inquired.

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried,” she answered. 

 

“Time to learn.” 

 

His tone told her it wasn’t an option to say no. She looked to the other women in the garden. Most of them were giggling or grinning at her. Hattie, the eldest, shooed her away with a gesture of her hand. She approached the black beast hesitantly.

 

“There aren’t any reins,” she noted with worry. 

 

“Don’t need any. They’re useless in battle when you can’t use your hands. He’s trained to move when I do.” 

 

She bit her lip. 

 

“It’s safe. Look,” –he showed her the cord- “you can hold onto this if you need to. I won’t let you fall.”

 

She got closer. “How do I…”

 

“Over on this side,” he instructed her, holding out his left hand. She walked around the horse’s head. When she was near enough, he told her to put her back to him. He bent low, holding onto Stranger’s mane and put his arm around her waist. He hefted her up in front of him like she weighed nothing at all. 

 

“Put your leg over,” he breathed near her ear, “Easier that way with out the reins. You need to be centered and have both legs to guide him.”

 

She did as he told her quickly, hoping no Brothers were nearby to see her acting so boyishly. She loved to ride this way but it also seemed improper to sweep her leg up into the air that high. If there had been anyone in front of them she was sure they would have caught a glimpse of her small clothes. Once she had settled between the horse’s neck and Sandor’s chest, he slipped the leather cord into her hands. 

 

“Hold onto that if you need to but don’t pull.” 

 

And with that she felt the legs near hers give the horse a squeeze and they were riding. He kept the horse at a walk so she could get used to the feel of the animal under her. She started to slouch back into him.

 

“Sit straight,” he told her, pressing into the small of her back with a knuckle, “Not rigid. Don’t roll your back either. You don’t have the saddle for support. Keep yourself up.”

 

She adjusted herself, doing her best to follow his coaching. He looped one arm around to place a hand on her stomach and pushed. 

 

“Stay strong here. This is where your balance comes from.”

 

Idla was sure she was dreaming. He’d ridden up on horseback to carry her off to some unknown destination. If she didn’t know better she would tease him for being gallant. She did her best to ride as he instructed. It was unusual but not unpleasant. She felt safe with him at her back. It was remarkable to take to the trails and feel him move the horse without words or reins. He’d shift his weight and the steed would move left or right. He’d press his weight down and the horse would stop. 

 

“Ready to go faster?” he questioned.

 

She wasn’t sure she was but she didn’t want the moment to end so she nodded her head enthusiastically. He squeezed with his knees this time and Stranger took off into a trot. She squealed in surprise at the new speed, though it was hardly any faster than the pace they had kept before. She gripped the leather cord he had given her. He put his arm around her waist again and held her. 

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he assured her and she trusted him. 

 

They rode like that through the trees for awhile, listening to the sounds of nature. She enjoyed being this close to him. She’d managed to put one of her hands over his on her stomach. He didn’t seem to mind as long as they were riding. She could smell him, he was so close. She had the strong urge to turn around and lick him in order to taste that smell. The horse’s body moving between her legs was doing nothing to help her situation. 

 

Mercifully, the trees parted and a small clearing became visible. She gasped. She’d never made it out this far and it was stunning. There were flowers everywhere and a small little inlet of water from where the tide had crept in. He pulled the horse up short near the water and dismounted first, landing on his good leg. He lifted his arms to help her and she knocked them away. 

 

“It’s bad enough you lifted me up here. You can’t carry me down as well. Don’t look at me that way, you know I’m right,” she scolded him. “Just give me an arm to keep steady.”

 

She jumped down using his forearm for support. The water looked inviting so she went over to look at the tiny minnows and crabs swimming in the shallows. He was busy taking off his robes, laying them on the ground to create a makeshift blanket. Once that was finished he took the saddle bag off Stranger and gave the horse a tap on its breast to let it know it was alright to go feed. She had started skipping stones but stopped when she saw him bring food and wineskins out of the leather sack. It was past the afternoon meal and she was hungry. 

 

She ran over and plopped herself down beside him, picking at the delights as fast as he could set them in front of her. They both sat on the robes while he continued to unpack and she nibbled on a handful of berries. He laughed at her eagerness. 

 

“What, I’m starving!” she stated, while grabbing a hunk of bread right out of his hands.

 

“You saving any for me?” he taunted. 

 

She gave him her best impression of him shrugging. However, she did slow her pace now that the initial pang of hunger was gone. She was happy. It had been weeks since she had felt this well. Her grief had changed from anger into a sadness that seemed to stretch on with no end in sight. The surprise ride was just what she needed to bring her back to herself. It was incredibly thoughtful of him to arrange this for her. He’d obviously put effort into packing all her favorite treats. He’d taught her something new which occupied her mind and lastly, he’d given her an entire field of flowers. A handful of violets and a bowl of inedible strawberries couldn’t compare. 

 

She gave him a radiant smile as they both ate and drank their fill of the wine. He truly didn’t understand his worth, she thought. She liked him and it was becoming clear that he felt something for her as well. Feeling brave, she scooted closer to him. She wanted him to kiss her. They’d been pleasant with each other long enough. She wanted more. But every time she inched closer to him he would, minutes later, move father away until he had ended up in the grass. She shook her head and laughed at the situation. He was exasperating but not hopeless.

 

“What?” he barked at her, not understanding her mirth. 

 

“If I have to explain it, then you’re going to have to admit to being a maiden after all,” she hinted. 

 

What was she on about? He honestly had no idea. He had been enjoying himself. The weather was still a touch warm during the day despite the winter that was closing in on them all. He had food and a pretty girl beside him. She kept moving closer to him though. He didn’t know why and moved to give her space until she’d taken over the whole damn robe. And then she’d laughed and called him a maiden again. 

 

She sighed, rolling her eyes and sitting up on her knees. There was a hand or two worth of space between them. Grabbing his shirt in her fist, she pulled him to her face and placed her lips on his. 

 

He froze. Is that what she had been getting at? No wonder he didn’t understand. He was terrible at this. He paid women for tumbles. He didn’t fucking court them. She kept her lips pressed to his. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He’d never had a women kiss him. He’d had all sorts of filthy things done to him in exchange for coin but a simple kiss wasn’t one of them. Not a lot of women wanted to see his face staring back at them no matter how much they were paid. 

 

She let out a sound that was half frustration and half disappointment. But then she moved her lips, using them to caress his own and he felt a heat start inside him like none he had ever known before. He did what she did, moving his lips across hers. She smiled while she kissed him. He could feel her lips curl up against his own. She closed her eyes so he did the same. It was different with his eyes closed. There was nothing to do but feel and taste her. His cock responded with swift excitement. She was bracing herself on his chest. He kept his hands in place in the grass beside him. He wanted more. Much more but they’d only just begun. He didn’t want to scare her off by plunging his cock into her straight away. And maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe kisses were all she was going to ask of him before she grew tired of the dog at her heel. 

 

Her lips moved again. All of sudden he found his bottom lip being dragged into her mouth and suckled on. He rumbled in his chest. She needed to stop. Now. This instant before he took her in the dirt. He pulled back from her. His eyes told her she’d pushed far enough for today.

 

She grinned at him. “Thank you,” she swept her arm around, “For all of this. It’s beautiful.” And then she stood, skipping off to explore the flowers. He took a moment to let his blood settle before going near the water to splash cold water on his face. That was better. Not much but it would do. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She stepped lightly down the steps to the bathing room. The humid room was under the kitchens which helped keep it warm. There were six tubs total. All made of stone and sunken down into the earth. Each one could comfortably hold two or three people. Women and men were not encouraged to bathe together but sometimes it was inevitable. As a general rule the women would bathe in the early morning before the first meal and the men would bathe later on in the evening after the last. Idla liked to wash either in the afternoon or evening. He job made her hot and sweaty. Many days she was covered in pummeled herbs, blood, pus and mud. She was not going to wait until the next day to bathe just to keep up a sense of propriety. Early evening was usually the best time to have the entire room to her self. 

 

Of course she didn’t always bathe alone. There were Brothers there sometimes and, occasionally, one of the other women. When a Brother or two was there they would keep to separate sides of the room and she would turn her back to them as she slipped out of her clothes quickly. She would cover her breasts, step down backwards and splash into the water as fast as she could manage. She would like to think that they averted their eyes but her experience with men, limited as it was, told her others wise. Still, she didn’t let it get to her. What harm was a quick glance? As long as they kept their hands and words to themselves she could put up with the rest in exchange for a warm soak. 

 

She opened the door to the baths and saw there was someone in the very back corner, down in one of the tubs. Then her heart leapt right up into her throat when she realized it was him. She almost tucked tail to run back up the steps but he had opened his eyes at the noise and now they both remained still as stone watching each other. She gulped. Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later, she told herself. It was time to find some courage. 

 

“I don’t usually see you here at this time,” she twittered nervously, attempting small talk with him.

 

“Stranger pissed on my leg,” he explained. 

 

She snorted with laughter, wondering what he had done to irritate the horse into such behavior. The simple act of talking seemed to settle them both a bit. She stole to the bath on the other side of the room and in the opposite corner from his. There, that seemed proper enough. He put his head back onto the stone walkway behind him and closed his eyes. She was grateful for his discretion. She did the same as she always did, slipping out of her clothes and entering the water as fast as she could. If he was looking she thought it would be cruel to bare her body slowly and tease him. She had no intention of coupling in the bath. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

He groaned, waking from a sweltering dream to find himself so stiff that he hurt. His balls were fucking aching. He had dreamt of her underneath him, screaming his name while he lost himself in her heat. It was the third night in a row it had happened. He grasped himself with his fist, pumping desperately and biting his lip until he felt release. He hadn’t had to take himself in hand so often since he was a lad. It was the only way he could manage to get out of bed anymore. This had to stop. Soon. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Their new routine was agreeable enough, though he found himself wanting more every day. More time. More looks. More smiles. More everything. He wanted her. All of her. He wanted her attention and he wanted her body. He yearned and longed as he had never done so before in his life. Sometimes he hated himself for being so weak, but then she would smile at him or touch his arm and he didn’t give a damn about appearing pathetic. Not as long as she would continue. 

 

They would see each other at meals times, often making eye contact across the room. Sometimes she would sit next to him, which would always leave him on edge and uncomfortable. He liked having her next to him. He didn’t like the entire hall knowing she was there. 

 

In the mornings he would tend to the horses. After the animals had been sent out to pasture, he would either go help in the gardens, and hope that she would be there, or practice his swordplay out in the small yard near the stables. He had set his armor under his bed in the hut. It wasn’t needed right now but the sword was still useful. He required the release of physical activities. It was simply a part of his being. He wasn’t able to sit still in tranquil silence like the Brothers. He craved action. The least he could do here was stay in motion and not let his muscles waste away. 

 

In the afternoons he would ride. Or, if he hadn’t seen her in several mornings and his pride wasn’t talking, he’d happen to stop by the sick house for a bruise paste or oil for his shoulder. In the evenings the only time he saw her was if she came down to the stables to watch him work. He wished that she would sit with him in his hut as evening turned to night. He had asked her once and she had looked at him with sad eyes saying she didn’t think it would be appropriate. He had some choice words for that line of thinking but in the end resigned him self to the fact she wasn’t going to budge on the matter. She could deny it all she wanted but there was a bit of a Lady in her after all. 

 

When there was less work to be done by both of them he would take her on bare back rides. He never took her to the clearing again, choosing instead to stay on the horse. It seemed safer that way. A handful of time they had met in the bath again. She had always insisted they make good use of the warm water and she would rub at his aching shoulder. It was a wonderful torture to endure those sessions. She would sit so close to him in only her robe and small clothes. He would be as naked as he was on his nameday surrounded by warmth and her scent as she touched him. He had no idea how he managed to get through it without turning around and using his tongue on her until she howled in rapture. The dreams he had at night went from burning to scorching. He’d never ask her to stop though. He would continue to suffer in silence than ever risk ending it. 

 

There hadn’t been anymore kisses, though he wanted them. She still gave out her touches freely and he wished he knew how to do the same. It seemed so easy for her but he found himself at a loss as to when and how to return them. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Today did not start off well. He’d over slept and missed the first meal. There was nothing left by the time he made it to the kitchens but the scrapings of the bottom of the porridge kettle and some wrinkled apples. Supplies were running low and he hoped the Maester would be returning soon with fresh ones. The old scholar had visited him a few days ago to ask if he would see to Idla’s safety in his stead. He’d had to fight the urge to bend the knee to the respected man and pledge himself to her. He had settled for a handshake and assuring words instead. 

 

Once his meager breakfast was in his belly we went to tend to the horses. They were also annoyed by their late meal. He was lost in thought as he brought buckets of oats and water to them. It seemed he couldn’t be free of the dreams of Idla, naked and moaning, even in his waking hours. His mind kept trying to combine the memory of her breasts he had seen that one time in the sick house with the image of backside bared to him in the baths. He tried not to look. But she chose to strip in front of him and he’d never claimed to be fucking chivalrous. Caught up in his waking dream, he never saw the hooves of the mare coming until he found himself on his back side, the air knocked out of him while he laid in the dirt. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

He had given up on the bloody horses and had made his way soiled and sore to the gardens. The weather was curiously hot. Most everyone had found an activity to do outdoors in order to enjoy the fine weather. This would more than likely be the last time any of them would feel heat in a long while. Many had gathered in the crop fields or gardens. Though it was late afternoon no one wanted to stop taking in the sunlight, so they continued to work well past the usual quitting time. He found himself on a half rotted bench shelling beans. It was woman’s work but his leg wasn’t up for kneeling and squatting to weed or pick herbs yet. After ten minutes in that sort of position the muscles in his right leg would feel like they had been set aflame. He could have gone to the crop fields and helped with the plowing, but then he wouldn’t be near her. So he shelled beans like a kitchen maid and watched her laugh with the other women. 

 

He’d met most of the women at this point. They were all survivors of the massacre at Scuttleton, like Idla. Maester Ulchard had been tasked with bringing them to the Quiet Isle for protection until the village could be somewhat rebuilt and stabilized. They were all kneeling or hunched over in the garden now, plucking at plants and chatting away as women were want to do. There were several Brothers dotting the scene as well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approach. 

 

It was the littlest one, Jocelyn, with her small swell of a belly. He’d not said much to her in the past. She was a tiny thing, probably not any older than the young scholars. She gaped at him with wide eyes whenever he was near. He knew he frightened her and tried his best to stay out of her way. He was used to frightening people, especially women, but he didn’t take pleasure in it. 

 

She approached him now and stood in front of him, doe eyed like always and shuffling her toes in the dirt between them. 

 

“Need something, girl?” he asked trying to keep the roughness from his voice. 

 

She hesitated then spoke in a shy tone. “May I sit?”

 

He shrugged. He didn’t have any idea what she was up to but if she was willing to try to remain in his presence he was also willing to let her. She sat down carefully beside him on the edge of the bench, as if she meant to change her mind at any moment and flee. He saw her open and close her mouth several times. 

 

“You were a solider?” she timidly inquired. 

 

“Aye,” he confirmed, “and a sworn shield. Kingsgaurd for a time as well. Stable Master now.”

 

She nodded, chewing at her lip like Idla did sometimes. She was starting to shake as well. 

 

“Did you ever . . .,” she stopped and tried again, “Were you ever part of a raiding party?”

 

“I was,” he told her, “More so when I was young. It’s what was done.”

 

He was getting uncomfortable with her line of questioning. She was obviously getting more distressed by the minute. He didn’t understand her reasons for wanting so many details and it was staring to irritate him. He preferred Idla’s method. Straight and to the point. 

 

“So you killed?” she pressed.

 

“Of course I killed. I was a soldier. You forget that part already?” he snapped at her.

 

There were tears in her eyes. Seven Hells, he thought. Where was Idla? He needed her help out of this. Jocylen’s cherub like lips were cracked and bleeding. She had tears hanging on her eyelashes as she turned to him, looking at his feet. 

 

“Did you ever take a woman?” she asked in a whisper. 

 

He felt like he had been kicked in the gut. She was a survivor of the raid on Scuttleton. A pregnant survivor. The tears in her eyes and the growing babe inside of her made more sense to him now. 

 

“You asking if I’ve raped anyone, little girl?” He was trying hard and failing to keep the venom from his voice. 

 

She only trembled in her seat in reply. 

 

He sighed and tried to push his rage deep down inside of him. She wasn’t trying to accuse, he told himself. She was scared and trying to sort something out in her head. 

 

“No, I never raped a woman.”

 

He spat the words out. It felt foul to even say it. He knew what it was like to be forced to endure against his will. To lose a part of him self to someone stronger. It probably wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close enough. He had never seen the point in holding down something weaker than himself to take. It seemed wrong and made his stomach churn. 

 

Idla had noticed the two and walked over to see what was going on. It wasn’t like Jocelyn to seek out Sandor’s company. She grew worried when she saw the anger in his eyes and the hurt in hers. The small girl was shaking in her seat, a few tears trailing down her cheeks.

 

“Jocelyn, love, what’s the matter?” she said with concern, casting a criticizing look Sandor’s way.

 

“Your little girl wants to know if I’m a rapist,” he growled back at her. Now it was Joycelyn’s turn to get a fiery look from Idla. 

 

“I had to know,” the girl stammered,” If he’s going to stay I had to know. I’m sorry.” She started weeping into her hands. Idla took a seat between the two of them and put an arm around the crying girl. Her other hand crept over to find Sandor’s and squeezed.

 

“It’s alright sweet one,” she cooed at the girl. “No one’s going to hurt you here. You’re safe.” She released her hold on Sandor and rose, pulling on Joyceln’s hands. 

 

“Come inside for a bit with me. You should try to rest. It’s not good for the baby to be so upset,” she shushed trying to soothe the girl. The two women started to walk away from him, towards the women’s cabins. Jocelyn had calmed herself and was only sniffling now. Idla looked over her shoulder at him and mouthed that she was sorry. 

 

He watched them leave. Well, wasn’t the perfect fucking ending to this shit of a day, he thought. Is that what women thought of him? Is that what everyone thought of him? Just because he had no qualms over ending life didn’t make him a rapist as well. He wasn’t his brother. His heart sank. Is that what Idla thought of him? No, his mind said, recalling the stern look she had given Jocelyn, the touch of her hand and the genuine apology in her eyes when she left. The Healer had more faith in him. She knew he wasn’t a saint. But she also knew he wasn’t a depraved man either. He breathed with less anger. He was dirty, aching and stiff physically. The exchange with the wisp of a girl had left him weary inside as well. Lifting himself up off the bench, he grabbed the basket of half shelled beans to take to the kitchens. He needed a fucking bath.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Over 100+ hits over the last chapter. You guys are amazing! Keep up on the Kudos! 
> 
> Warning! Ice water and cold showers may be needed after reading.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I saw no indication in the show to make me believe Sandor has any idea yet that his brother is dead. Or undead. Or whatever is happening in the show. Lol.

Four nights. He had welcomed her into his bed for the past four nights in a row. She was torn over wanting to do as she wished and what society said she should do. Her Speta’s voice rang out clear in her mind talking of unwed whores. She didn’t feel like a whore. She felt cared for and desired. And she loved him. More than anyone or anything else in her life. Surely, what she and Sandor shared wasn’t a sin. 

 

Even if she could find a reason to stay away from him it would never survive once he was near. Everyday she found herself surprised at some point by him. She would tell herself she would stay in her own room, just one night, and then later discover herself trapped between his body and the wooden work bench in the sick room. He would press himself into her back, making sure she felt his heated length while he pulled her braid. He spoke hard words, softly into her ears. Words like licking, fucking, and biting. Sucking, cunt, and arse. How was she supposed to say no to that? And he made sure to keep his promises just as surely as she did. 

 

Jocelyn was her secret keeper for now but she knew the arrangement couldn’t last forever. However, when she showed up at his door to try and gently tell him so, he would kiss and fondle until she forgot all about what she had meant to say. As soon as she crossed his threshold his eyes would light up with need and happiness as well. He could keep denying he knew what happiness was but she knew better. She saw it shining through when he smiled and deep crow’s feet would settle at the corners of his eyes. She would kiss them, entranced by the emotion they conveyed. 

 

He would barely speak until they’d coupled once. The first time was always sudden and feverish. He acted like it was their first time all over again. Yet, there was also a desperation of sorts about it. He would take her fast but look at her as if he thought it was the last time they would lie together. He would make sure she sang with pleasure and then pound into her like he wanted her to never forget who was doing it to her. She didn’t. 

 

There would be a second, slower session later on, giving her the opportunity to assure him that she wasn’t going anywhere. That they would continue to be something to each other. She would usually take control, using his calmed state to bless his body with her lips before taking him into her. Sometimes he would let her ride him like she had the first night. Other times he would roll her over and fill her at his own pace while she moaned her approval into his ear. 

 

He would become more talkative in the spaces between bliss, sharing bits and pieces of his past. She gave him her full attention, chiming in when she felt it was warranted and staying quiet when silence was necessary. Most of what he shared had happened in the last few years. She heard horrifying stories of King Joffrey’s cruelty, energized tales of Tourney’s that left her speechless, and recollections of his life on the road with “the wolf girl”, which she later learned was Arya Stark, one of the girls of House Stark to the North. He told her how the wolf had left him to suffer and die on the hill after he had taken a liking to her and stood up to the massive Brienne of Tarth for her. He saw a part of himself in the little girl and thought they had reached a mutually respectful, if uneasy, alliance. He was ashamed to admit he had been defeated by a woman, blaming his loss on the rot in his neck and malnourishment. She told him it didn’t matter to her how he came into her life. She was glad he was there and that she had been able to help him. 

 

Sometimes, when he was drowsy and drunk on love making she would question him about his life before King’s Landing. She would ask about battles and he would tell her she didn’t need to hear those stories. She’d ask about his family and his eyes would go dark, asserting that most of them were dead and that there was not a thing to talk about on that matter. She would let it go but push again when the time seemed right. She knew the Mountain That Rides was half of the brothers Clegane but surely he had other family? And if they were, as he claimed, all dead she knew from her own experience that sooner or later it would have to be dealt with. The sadness she saw in his eyes needed to be laid to rest. 

 

By the fifth day she had to plead mercy. She adored every moment her body was pressed next to his but she was damned sore. Her body wasn’t used to such regular activity. He was an enthusiastic lover and her delicate folds were in need of a rest. The news did not please him, as she knew it wouldn’t. But when she told him it was because she was experiencing pain, he got a troubled look in his eyes and mumbled that she should have said something sooner. He tried to get her to stay with him anyway, promising that he would keep his hands to himself. She didn’t trust that statement for a moment. She didn’t doubt his intentions; only she knew the reality of what would happen if they tried to share a bed and keep their bodies apart. If he didn’t break she was certain that she would. 

 

Ultimately she had kissed him, putting all the love she could muster into it and told him she needed to spend a night in her own room once in while. People would notice and talk.  
He had scowled and told her to let them talk. She used her last bit of ammunition and mentioned a wedding again. That shut him up. He ordered her to use whatever oils she had that would help her mend and get back to his bed quickly. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

It was an hour before dawn when Tallie pushed at her shoulder. Idla rubbed at her eyes and gave the young woman a questioning look.

 

“Marie’s baby is coming,” Tallie informed her. 

 

Idla groaned and stretched. She was enormously grateful now that she had gone to bed early last night in her own bed. Somehow she had become the chosen Midwife on the Quiet Isle. She had tried to explain time and time again that there was a difference between Healer and Midwife but the women didn’t want to hear it. Yes, she had trained for a few months under a Midwife, to learn the basics, but that didn’t make her an expert on the subject. And she hated it besides. It was loud and messy. The entire process made her insides crawl. She made her way to Marie’s room, with Hattie and Tallie following to help. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Marie’s labor had progressed swiftly. It was her third child so her body had become accustomed to the effort. It was a little over five or six hours when her babe entered the world, squalling and pink faced within minutes. They had all wept. Marie had lost her husband and her other two children at Scuttleton so her third, a little boy, was a precious sight to them all. Alva brought them honey cakes and fruit, which they all tore into eagerly while the old woman cooed over the little man. He was named Edgar after his father. 

 

Once Idla had eaten her fill and saw that mother and child were settled comfortably, she sought out fresh air. There wasn’t much for her to do for the remainder of the day in the way of responsibilities. Maester Ulchard knew she was busy with birthing and that it could take many long hours sometimes. Marie’s quick delivery had given her a rare free day. She found herself drawn to the stables, seeking out her man’s company. She’d never visited him in the morning and wanted to surprise him.

 

As she neared the stables she could hear the clinking of metal, the thunk of wood on wood and men’s voices. She had thought he would be in the stables or fields with the horses but this was not the case. Following the busy sounds of movement, she rounded the corner of the stables to see Sandor and several other men in the yard. All the men had wooden swords except for Sandor. She saw Brother Merkel and Harper taking swings at two large logs that had been set upright and crudely carved into torsos. Two other brothers, Fillis and Raleigh she believed they were named, were facing each other going through a series of moves she didn’t recognize or understand. There were also several stuffed burlap sacks hanging from trees. Maddox was currently in a frenzy, smacking at them while Sandor put a hand to his face and shook his head at the boy. She knew that Sandor had taken to practicing his swordplay to stay fit but she didn’t know that it had turned into a group of like minded men. She watched Sandor grab into the blurred mess that was Maddie’s wooden sword, effectively stopping the boy instantly. 

 

“That’s no way to swing a sword,” he scolded, “Do as I told you or you can muck the stalls tonight.”

 

The little scholar huffed but took a step back from the burlap men. He held his body up straight and positioned his feet correctly and then lunged forward to thrust the sword in front of him. 

 

“Better. Your arm is weak,” Sandor told him while pushing on the boy’s sword, causing him to fall forward. “You learn to stay put when I do that, you can move onto swinging.”

 

Maddox glared at him and held the sword out firmly in front of him with both hands close to the pummel. Sandor snorted and used one hand to lower it again. 

 

“Keep practicing, boy,” he advised. He looked up and saw her then, surprise and that happiness he claimed he didn’t know gleaming in his eyes. 

 

“Thought you were birthing babies,” he declared, walking up to her.

 

“I was.”

 

“Alright?”

 

“Yes, mother and babe are sleeping. It was-“she crinkled her nose- “slimy. I couldn’t wait to be done with it.”

 

He chuckled at her description then gestured to the yard. “We’ll finish in an hour if you want to stay.”

 

“I didn’t know you had so many students,” she teased. 

 

“Didn’t invite them. The stubborn brat started it. Rest came later,” he shrugged. “Don’t mind if they want to try at it.”

 

“Well, go on. I don’t want to keep them from their lesson,” she shooed him away and took a seat in the grass. 

 

He went back to the men, adjusting stances here, giving advice there. Harper seemed to have a natural talent for it and soon he and Sandor were sparring. She didn’t comprehend one thing they were doing but it was still fascinating to watch. It shocked her that Sandor kept his sword while Harper made due with a wooden one. Maddox had taken a seat next her so she addressed him.

 

“Why doesn’t he use a wooden one as well? It seems dangerous. Isn’t Harper worried?” she questioned, concern tainting her voice. She didn’t want to spend her day off sewing Harper back up.

 

Maddox laughed in glee. “He’s only trying to scare Harper into doing it right. It’s good motivation when that hunk of metal comes flying at your face.”

 

“He’s done that with you!” she shrieked.

 

“Yes!” the little lad shouted, falling over into the grass laughing. He saw her fretting though and added, “Don’t worry so much Idla. It never goes where he doesn’t want it to. It’s when he uses the wooden sword you’re in trouble. That’s when you find yourself face down eating dirt.”

 

She chewed her lip. It didn’t seem safe at all. But she hadn’t seen any of them in the sick house yet due to injury. Sandor apparently knew what he was doing and the men wouldn’t place them selves knowingly in harms way, she reasoned.

 

“You’re all insane,” she finally concluded while Maddie continued to giggle. 

 

“He likes you,” the boy stated, reminding her of his boldness. 

 

“I like him too,” she said after a pause. 

 

They sat chatting together, watching the two men continue their practice. Sandor had indeed taken up a wooden sword as Maddox said he would. But now he was using sword and body to take poor Harper down to the ground. Again and again Harper fell but, Idla gave him credit, he kept getting up and managed to dodge or block any blow that repeated. At one point, while he was on the ground, he swept a leg out causing Sandor to fall. Sandor laughed, stood and helped the man up. 

 

“You’re learning,” he said. “The sword isn’t the only weapon you have.”

 

Idla continued to observe. It was incredible to watch him move. He was all power and solid strength. It made her think about how forceful he was when he was thrusting into her body. He had the same serious look on his face now as he did in the few seconds before he would spill himself inside her. He was sweaty and breathing heavily. He removed his brown robes and she felt flushed, If Maddox hadn’t been beside her she would have started wriggling in her seat. She was aching. Watching him fight was making her yearn to have him share that primal energy with her. 

 

The bell for the mid day meal rang out. All of the men stopped what they were doing and began handing the wooden swords back to Sandor. They made their way out of the yard, towards the main building while Sandor walked to the stables. She saw that none of the men were looking back so she crept into the stables behind him. 

 

He was placing the swords over in a corner of the stables. The draw she felt towards him was undeniable. It seemed completely out of her control and she didn’t care. He was still sweating. It plastered his hair to his face and collected on the skin at his neck. His clothing clung to him. He had noticed her approach and raised an eyebrow. Before she knew what she was doing she had grabbed a hold of his shirt to pull him down so that she could lick the sweat right off of him. She tasted salt and that flavor she could only describe as him. She darted her tongue along the dip in his collarbone and he groaned, slamming a fist into the wooden post of a nearby stall. 

 

“Idla…” he hissed out a warning. 

 

She pulled at him again to reach his good ear and bite firmly at the lobe as she knew he liked. Her feet were suddenly moving backward. One of his large hands was at the base of her neck, pushing her until her back connected solidly into a wall behind her. It took her breath away but she quickly recovered to crash her lips against his. It was a harsh kiss full of passion. Their teeth clashed as they battled for dominance.

 

She put her hands up under his shirt to feel the sweat on his chest while he dug through her skirts with one hand. He was pulling at the ribbons on her small clothes. She heard them rip and couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her. He was going to ruin all of her flimsy under clothes. 

 

“Keep that up and I’ll have nothing to wear,” she scolded, “I’ll have to start going naked underneath my dresses.” 

 

He growled and kissed at her neck so hard she was sure there would be marks. Tearing the bit of cloth away from her center, he plunged his fingers into her. She’d been wet and ready for him before she had even entered the stable and he spent only a minute teasing her before he reached for the ties on his breeches. 

 

She smacked his hands away to do it on her own, filling her hands with him once he was free. She gave a few pulls and he shuddered while cursing. Then she found herself shoved up against the wall again as he lifted her legs up around his waist. She used one hand on his neck to stay steady and the other to guide him into her. He entered her with a force that caused her to call out. She was still a bit sore but it became a strange mix of pleasure and pain as she felt him move inside her. This new position ground his shaft into the sensitive spot that caused her to writhe and moan. 

 

He kept his hands under her while he continued to thrust with all the power she had been fantasizing about earlier. She felt her head bang against the wood behind her. He was wild and she was frantic. Her hands reached out around her, trying to find something to cling to. One fell in his hair to pull. The other found bridals hanging on hooks by her head. She twisted her hand into them, using the strong cords to brace herself as he continued his furious pace. The sounds of their shouts, the thump against wood and the creaking leather in her hand filled the air. 

 

She was mad with lust and she felt her end approaching. She licked at him again to taste him and then threw her head back as his length continued to stroke her. She started to scream her pleasure and felt his hand cover her mouth. It would do no good to have anyone passing by hear her bliss. She keened into his hand, her muffled cries letting him know she was satisfied. He knocked his forehead into hers and shook as he began to find his release as well. 

 

“Fuck, Idla,” he roared, while slapping a palm against the wall by her head and it was her turn to silence his cries by putting her mouth over his. She kept her ankles solidly locked behind him to keep herself up while he finished. She felt him pulse deep within her and kissed him harder. 

 

He dropped her almost immediately after. Making sure she had her feet, he collapsed on a bench beside her. He was gasping for air like Stranger did after a long ride, while tucking him self back into his breeches. She smiled smugly and sat beside him. His head was resting back against the wall behind him. His eyes were shut and his mending leg straight out in front of him. She worried. 

 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, pointing at his leg.

 

He opened one eye to see what she was talking about and grunted, “Didn’t hear you saying to stop.” 

 

She couldn’t argue with that so she stayed quiet beside him. Holding one of his hands, she placed her head on his shoulder. She sighed in contented satisfaction when she felt him kiss her hair. 

 

“What else you doing?” he asked once he had managed to breath at a normal pace again. 

 

“Food sounds lovely first. Then, I thought about a bath. A long, proper one. I’ve time to oil my hair today and maybe tend to other things,” she told him.

 

“Women,” he sorted.

 

“You’ll be glad of the pains I take when I’ve shaved myself bare,” she taunted. 

 

He sat up quickly to look at her, hunger in his eyes. 

 

“You do that,” he rasped, “I’ll lick your cunt all night.”

 

She stood to place her hands on either side of his face. She kissed him slowly waiting until his hands settled at her waist. Pulling back she smiled for him.

 

“I look forward to it,” she breathed, turning to exit the stables and leave him dumb struck on the bench.


	13. Chapter 13

That thing he’d pushed for all his life. That yearning inside for something more that he had always tried to deny. He had found it with her. He was desperate to keep it. She took him into her time and time again. As hard as he was he could always find a soft place to rest within her. In her arms he could turn aggression into passion. It had been twenty years since he’d fucked this much. And it wasn’t the same at all as it was back then. It wasn’t an exchange for money. It was shared and not one sided. There was a give and take between them but it involved something locked inside each one of them. They each acted the key to the other. It seemed like she gave more than she took though. He tried to keep things even but he didn’t think she could ever understand the importance of what she had given him. Hope. 

 

He thought on how lucky he was to have found this gift as he licked at her folds. It still made no sense to him but he was past trying to seek out answers. She wanted him. All of him. It was clear and he was ready to take what had been offered to him. 

 

She’d kept her promises, as usual, arriving at his door that night freshly scrubbed. He’d wasted no time at all to check and make sure that she had, indeed, taken care to remove any trace of hair from her womanhood. He almost took her immediately on the table but remembered his oath. Instead, he helped her out of her clothing and laid her gently on the bed. 

 

Trailing his tongue over her breasts first, he used his teeth to scrape at her nipples. It made her pull in a breath and he smiled. She was always ready and willing for him. She had yanked on his shirt, saying she wanted to feel his skin and that’s as far as he had made it in his own disrobing. Once he began placing kisses to her inner thighs, she had closed her eyes in bliss. She giggled at first, saying his beard was scratchy, but when he used it to rub against her nub she gasped while she clung to the furs on the bed with her fists. 

 

He could smell her. He flicked his tongue out to taste her and sweet fucking Mother, she had oiled herself there like she had done to her mouth their first night together. She tasted sweet but under that there was still the flavor of her. His mind nearly shut down as he tried to comprehend how she could be sweet and salty. A tang of bitterness and musk mixed in too. And all at the same time. 

 

He was straining against the inside of his clothes. Uncomfortably so. Continuing to lap at her, he brought a hand to his breeches to loosen the ties. The brush of his own hand was enough to make him pause and whimper into her. He could have taken himself in hand while he finished her off but he wanted to be inside her. There was no feeling that could compare to losing himself in her heat. He brought his arms up to circle around her legs instead so that he could give her his full attention. She was writhing under him, bucking up to meet his lips and crying. Crying? Yes, there were tears falling from the corners of her eyes, he noted. He ceased his actions instantly. Was he hurting her? Her eyes flew open when he removed his mouth from her. 

 

“Oh Gods please, please don’t stop,” she begged him. 

 

“You’re crying,” he observed pointing at her face. He didn’t understand what was going on. Why did she want him to continue if it made her weep? She put a hand to her cheek, wiping at the tears and then looked at them on her finger tips. She acted like she wasn’t even aware they had fallen 

 

“It’s alright,” she tried to explain to him, “I’m happy is all. It’s a good cry.”

 

He scoffed. A good cry? The fuck did that mean? He’d never felt good when he wept. Curiosity tugged at him so he pulled himself up to her face, looking into her eyes. She gave him that funny non pitying look of hers that he had yet to figure out. He kissed the last tear on her face, tasting a different salt from her body. 

 

“I’m fine,” she soothed, “I promise. Please don’t stop.” 

 

He nodded and found himself settled again between her legs. She was sighing once more within minutes. Using his tongue he made broad swipes across all of her. He rolled his tongue on her nub and she gave him surprised yelps in return. He was so close to spilling himself at the smell and taste of her. Knowing that she was finding rapture by his mouth alone was pushing him to the edge but he wanted to feel her wrapped around him. He twisted the bed cloths in his hands, trying to hold out. Finally he took two fingers and shoved them inside her while he sucked hard at her swollen bud. She called out loud and strong into the room, repeating his name as she fell apart. Her whole torso came up off the bed as she tangled her hands in his hair. Her legs squeezed around his head and he would have laughed if he could get the breath to do so. 

 

She trembled and collapsed back onto the pallet. He gave her a few more licks before he kicked at his breeches. They ended up snaring at his ankles but he was too far gone to care. He hauled himself up to enter her while she still lay panting and languid. She responded though, weakly putting her arms around him and digging her heels into the bed to brace for his thrusts. It didn’t take long. He’d been ready to burst for an eternity it seemed. A few solid, strokes and he was helpless to stop himself from losing any sense of control. Grabbing at her hair with one hand and her arse with another he jerked, feeling himself throb hot and hard and deep inside her. He grunted and moaned as her walls drained every last drop from him until he lay spent and keening on top of her. Somewhere along the line she had started to kiss his face. He basked in her affections, his heart slamming in his chest. He felt like pure glory. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Back and forth they went. Like a tide. They pulled at each other day after day. She stole to his hut most nights, and crept back by the light of dawn to brew tea. He’d taken to keeping a store of it on his mantle just to buy a few more minutes with her. She sat sipping some now, naked at the foot of his bed and smirking like a spoiled child. He was still stretched out under the furs, naked as well, watching her with sleepy eyes. 

 

“Do you remember when you put vinegar in your cup?” she questioned. 

 

“Aye,” he replied laughing. That had been a good day. She thought she could get the better of him and he’d proven her wrong. She had a look on her face now that told him she was trying to work something out.

 

“How did you know I would take your cup that day?” she finally asked. 

 

“I didn’t,” he stated. 

 

Now she was truly confused. 

 

“But I saw you drink out of if every night.”

 

“Aye,” he told her again, waiting for her to understand. She only narrowed her eyes at him. It finally hit her. 

 

“How long did you have vinegar in the cup?” 

 

He roared with laughter, “A whole bloody week! I tried for days to get you angry enough to take it. You’re too patient with me.”

 

“But I saw you drink out of it! For days before I took it!” she shouted in bewilderment. 

 

He grinned. 

 

“You drank vinegar for a week just to pull one over on me?” 

 

“Worth it,” he chuckled. 

 

“You stubborn bull of a man!” she scolded while laughing right along with him. She crawled up to him and placed her lips on his. 

 

“You know I can’t stand even the smell of vinegar anymore,” she told him in between kisses. 

 

“Neither can I. Hate the fucking stuff.” 

 

“We’ll never serve it in our own household, agreed?” she insisted.

 

“Agreed,” he rasped into her mouth. 

 

They spent the next ten minutes or so teasing each other with lips and hands until she had to leave him. He groaned his disapproval but she promised to return that night. It wasn’t until much later in the day that she realized she’d spoken of a home together and that he hadn’t corrected her. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She liked his hands the best. There were many fine qualities to admire about his body but if she had to pick one it would be his hands. They were huge. There was no exaggeration in calling them that. Every time he picked up a bowl, cup or horse brush he looked like he was holding a child’s toy. Silverware became minuscule in his hands. A large feed bucket became a tiny pail. She marveled at them. Her own hands were small to begin with and they were positively dwarfed by his. He could hold her clenched fist within his own easily. 

 

And then there was the pleasure they brought her. If he wasn’t kneading her muscles into relaxed bliss then he was stroking at her sensitive flesh until she screamed in ecstasy. His palms and finger tips were rough from years of hard work but the backs were surprisingly soft. She would caress them every chance she got, the skin rivaling her breasts in softness. The nails were usually dirty but he would scrub them clean before he touched her woman’s heat. She didn’t know where he had learned that courtesy but was glad he had been given the lesson. 

 

She loved finding new places to put his hands. On her body or other objects, it didn’t matter. She’d toss him the largest apple she could find just to see what it looked like in his hand. She’d place his hands on the soles of her feet and stare at the fingers that still stretched farther than her toes. He would laugh at her but she would only stick out her tongue and keep at it. Finding new ways to amaze her self with his size. 

 

Often she would stroke at the scars on his palms, remembering a time when she had fought for long hours to save him. Sometimes she cried and he told her to stop. He’d hide his hands away if she kept weeping over them, he warned. She told him he didn’t understand what it was like to have the memory of bringing someone back from the brink of death only to end up caring so very much for them. He would kiss her then, thanking her for giving him life until she forgot her tears for a time. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

If someone had held a knife to his throat, demanding he pick a single thing that he liked most about her, he would have had to let them bleed him out. It was impossible to pick one thing. Everything about her was a wonder. He’d never known this was what having someone, really having someone, was like. It was breathtaking. He wasn’t one to sit and wax poetic but he understood now why some men did. 

 

Her hair was nice. He had been a fool to think that only the color of fire could move him. Now he saw dark soil in the gardens and smiled, thinking of her. Sometimes, when she lay on his chest after they had coupled, he would run his hands through it. It would catch the fire light and he could see different shades of earth and honey swirl together. It was thick as a horse’s mane, course and straight, a stark contrast to his own. He loved pulling her braids out as soon as she had done them up and watching her huff in mock irritation. 

 

He held a special regard for her eyes as well. They were a dark, cornflower blue. Close enough in shade to remind him of others he had once cared for but not exact. The similarity was familiar enough to pull at him but there was a sufficient amount of contrast to imprint independent, untainted memories in his mind. And the way she looked at him sometimes! He never thought in all his life he would see a woman look at him in so many ways. Happiness, lust, desire, mirth, anger, frustration, forgiveness. He saw it all in her eyes. He had caused that to occur in someone else. The knowledge left him in awe. 

 

But if he had truly been forced, then the thing about her he would pick wouldn’t be physical at all. The thing he cherished above all else was what was tucked away inside her heart. A religious man would call it her soul. A bard might call it her spirit. He didn’t know what to call it. It was simply Idla and whatever it was that made her his was the most treasured possession he owned.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

The small leather sachet fell into her lap as she dug through her chest. She’d been after her one fine dress; a pale yellow frock with short sleeves and a plunging neckline. It was made of much finer material then her usual day to day dresses that needed to hold up to hours of intense labor. Tiny, white embroidered flowers lined the edges. She fingered them, remembering a time when her mother had helped her to stitch each one. 

 

There was going to be a name day festival in a fortnight on the Quiet Isle. There were too many people on the Isle to take the time to acknowledge each one individually. The Elder Brother understood the need for everyone to have a break once in a while but he felt a succession of never ending celebrations was skirting the edges of prideful heathenism. As a compromise, three times a year there was a mass commemoration for all those who had celebrated a name day in the time between merriments. It would also be the first chance to celebrate the new life on the Isle as one. Baby Edgar was growing fast and healthy. 

 

She had been to one such party before and had a lovely time. All had taken a rest that day to eat, drink, dance and play games. The entire day had been a whirlwind of excitement. This one would be equally thrilling as it would mark the passing of her own name day. She had turned twenty one in the past month. A woman in her prime. 

 

And here she knelt, shaking out her one worthy dress she’d managed to salvage from Scuttleton. She wanted to wash it and give it time to breath before wearing it. Holding it up in the light she frowned. It might need to be taken out a bit. Her hips were getting wider, reminding her of her duty as a woman. They certainly weren’t the same size as they were when she was sixteen and the dress brand new. That’s when she noticed the small bag that had landed in her lap when she shook out the dress. 

 

It was Sandor’s. She cursed at herself for forgetting it. When he had arrived bloodied and broken the Maester had stripped him bare in order to tend to his wounds. She had gathered up his tattered clothing and felt a lump within them. Before she threw everything into the fire she had found the leather pouch stitched crudely into the seam of his breeches. She had tucked it in her own pocket unconsciously. Later on, she had absent mindedly tossed it into her trunk. It had been covered by clean clothing and new keepsakes, effectively buried and forgotten. 

 

But now it had been found again. She felt guilt at having kept it so long. It probably had some value to him, otherwise why would it have been hidden in his clothing? Holding it in her palm, she tried weighing it. There was a little heft to it but not much. There were several objects inside. Her curiosity burned and she slid the drawstring between her fingers. She stopped herself though. It wouldn’t be right to snoop through his things, she reprimanded herself. She would take it to him and he would share with her its secrets if he wanted to. 

 

She left the dress on her bed and made her way out of her room to find him. Now that she had been reminded of his possessions she wished to return them as soon as possible. The stables were her first stop and she was fortunate to catch him there. He was laying down new straw in the stalls. He stopped his work to greet her but then looked like he was seeing the Stranger itself when he saw what she had in her hands. She stopped short a few paces from him. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she rushed, seeing his brow wrinkle, “I forgot all about it. I found it in your clothes when you first arrived and put it away to give to you later. It was dreadful of me to forget until now.” 

 

He reached out a hand to her and she willingly gave him what was rightfully his. 

 

“You open it?” he asked. 

 

“No,” she told him truthfully. 

 

He looked at the black leather in his hands, then at her. What had filled her hand completely only took up half of his palm. Setting his pitch fork aside he beckoned her closer to him. She stood near, craning her neck to see inside his hand as he emptied the bag into it. 

 

Several objects tumbled out. A Gold Dragon caught her eye and she whistled. She’d never seen one before. There was a broken half of a tarnished locket in the shape of a heart, a pretty bronze ring with three tiny blue stones, and, she started, a human tooth. He held the bag open, and told her to dig in the bottom. She pulled a small scrap of cloth from the bottom. It looked like the world’s rattiest handkerchief. It had bloodstains on it. He pointed at each of the items in turn. 

 

“From my first Tourney,” he spoke of the coin. 

 

“My sister’s,” he told her of the locket.

 

“My mother’s,” was the explanation of the ring. 

 

“And this?” she questioned while holding up the bit of cloth.

 

“Someone I knew borrowed it,” was his cryptic answer. 

 

“Who?” she pressed. 

 

He shook his head. “Another time,” he told her while taking it from her hands and placing it in his pocket. The last object, the tooth, he held between his fingers. 

 

“From the first man I killed,” he rumbled, looking her straight in the eye. She gulped. 

 

“But why?” she whispered, “Why keep that?” 

 

He looked so tired she thought. His eyes were troubled as he leaned back against the stall door behind him. He sighed. 

 

“Because he murdered my sister,” he told her flatly. He clenched all the objects in his fist and sunk down onto the floor in the newly strewn hay. 

 

She was shocked. He’d never spoken a word of his family until now and to learn he’d lost a sister the same way she had lost her brothers caused her heart to lurch painfully inside her. Lowering herself down onto the straw as well, she knelt at his side waiting. 

 

“How old was she?” she dared to ask.

 

“Ten,” he answered, his voice barely audible.

 

“And you?”

 

“Twelve.”

 

“You killed a man when you were twelve?” she clarified her voice taking on both disbelief and sympathy. 

 

He only nodded his head. The look in his eyes had gone from troubled to deep sadness. She felt tears spring to her eyes but blinked them back. Her weeping would only upset him further right now. 

 

“I’d already been a squire for two years then. I’d seen enough dead people. Just hadn’t put any in the ground yet myself.” He was looking past her and she knew he was caught up in memories. She stayed silent and let him continue. 

 

“Gregor was a Knight already. We were in the same battalion. I wasn’t his squire.” –he paused and spat on the ground- “I’d slit my own throat before letting that happen. We had a furlough. Gregor was ahead in the line and got the order before I did. He made it home first. Had a friend with him.” 

 

“My brother,” –he took a deep shaky breath- “My brother doesn’t have one decent bone in his body. He’s a monster. He surrounds himself with men like him. He and that other man made it home first. The other man had heard Gregor bragging about how pretty our sister was around the fires at night. He’d gotten it into his head he was going to have her. Gregor didn’t care. People aren’t people to him. Their animals. Or playthings. He didn’t care his own sister was going to be raped.”

 

He stopped and looked at her. She gave him a sad and watery half smile. It was a show of support. She nodded at him to continue. He looked at his lap before he did so. Her heart broke when she saw his chin tremble.

 

“She’d gone swimming in the cow pond. I was only a half hour behind but it was too late. When she struggled and fought like I’d taught her, he drowned her. Caught him trying to stick his cock in her dead body. Used my knife to gut him. Bashed in his face too until there was nothing left. Looked like a slab of meat.”

 

He had started shaking and she didn’t care anymore if she upset him further. She flung her arms around his neck and wept for both him and his poor little sister. 

 

“Gregor laughed the whole time. Cheered me on for finally becoming a man.” he murmured into her ear. “Found the tooth and locket later on. Never found the other half. Had a lock of our mother’s hair in it. Never found that either.” 

 

She pulled back to hold his face in her hands. He sniffed and wouldn’t look at her. She pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes to weep for them all if he couldn’t. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “Sandor, I’m so sorry.”

 

“She was just a girl,” he moaned, “She hadn’t even bled yet.” 

 

He pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled his hips. He drew her head down to his chest and buried his face in her hair. She heard him breath in rapid gulps while his arms shook all around her. Together they wept for their lost families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .geez, I made myself cry . . .


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no intention of bringing Septon Meribald into this. I do however, like the idea of Dog and I’m in charge here so voila. Enjoy. 
> 
> Also . . . how badly do you want the next chapter up? Do tell. I know I can’t wait because it’s freakin’ awesome.

He had known the day would go sour when he saw the leather bag clutched inside of her hand. At first, he thought to pocket the whole damned thing and forget about it. But when he asked if she had looked she had told him no. He believed her. He didn’t mean for the story surrounding his sister’s death to come pouring out of him but it did anyway. Once the words started they wouldn’t stop until he was left weeping into her hair. She cried with him and he almost choked on his tears all over again at the empathy she showed him. It left him feeling gutted the rest of the day. She took care to smile at him and touch him more often for the remainder of the evening. 

 

That night he held her. They had stripped naked but he found his usual vigor gone. It was trapped under grief that was still bleeding from him. She seemed to understand his conflicting urges and used her hands to tenderly stroke his back and arms. She touched him nowhere else, letting him settle against her until sleep found him. It was the first night they had spent together yet not joined. 

 

The next day he felt somehow different. He’d never told anyone of his sister’s fate. He thought he would carry that burden to his grave. But she had shared in his pain and in doing so he felt his load lighten the smallest amount. The memory still weighed heavy on his mind but he no longer felt crushed by it. His sister’s eyes no longer dragged him down with as much force as before. Idla was proving to be as solid and strong as he. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

“There’s a dog out here,” she said, rubbing her eyes as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing. She had been on her way out the door. He was still lying under the furs as was his habit. He never made her leave. She choose to and he’d be damned if he was going to subject himself to the chill of dawn if he didn’t have to. Now she stood with one foot inside and one foot out, staring at the space in front of her. He couldn’t see what she saw from his place in the bed. 

 

“What?” he grumbled. It was far too early for tricks.

 

“There is. A dog. Out here.” She stated slowly, making sure he heard this time. He sat up, but before he could get out of the bed she was hopping backwards in surprise. And, indeed, a dog of medium build came trotting into the room like it was the owner of the hut. It walked right up to the bed and sniffed at him before planting its head on his leg. He gingerly put his hand by its ears and when it didn’t object, he scratched. The dog opened it’s jowls to lick at its muzzle and then closed its eyes. He looked up at Idla who resembled a fish at the moment, her mouth opening and shutting with no sound. 

 

“Where’d it come from?” he asked. She looked out the door, left and right, and then shook her head. 

 

“No one around,” she told him. 

 

Coming closer, she knelt down to pet at the dog’s back. It turned happily towards her and licked her entire face in one sweep of its tongue. 

 

“Thanks,” she huffed at the dog. “It’s a boy,” she added, waving a hand at its bits underneath. 

 

“Guess it can stay,” he shrugged. “Until it finds its way back home,” he amended when she raised her eyebrow at him. He liked dogs well enough. Never had a problem with any animal really. Except for cats. Vicious, fickle cunts they were. 

 

She shrugged as well and kissed him one last time, leaving him and the dog alone. It was a good looking creature. It seemed healthy with all its teeth and a thick coat. Most likely it was a hunting hound. The build and muzzle were the right size for the breed. Its coat was white with large brown spots all over. He dressed and when he went to leave his hut, the dog followed at his side. 

 

“Go on,” he told it, “Go find your master.” But the dog ignored him and continued on the same path as he. He tried yelling at it. He tried throwing a stick for it. It only returned moments later wagging its tail and bumping its head into his leg. He couldn’t get the thing to go away and after a time he stopped trying. 

 

He never named it. Just called it Dog. It seemed completely taken with him. He hadn’t had a canine since his youth, before joining the call to war. He was startled to realize he missed having a furred companion. Besides himself, Dog was also ecstatic to see the Elder Brother whenever the man stopped by to visit. The beast would nearly piss himself with excitement as the two men talked. The Elder Brother would usually bring a bone for Dog and scratch behind his ears just as Sandor did. Their conversations were becoming less strained. Sharing his time with Idla was helping him to converse with others without biting their heads off. He learned that he shared a great deal in common with the devoted man’s past. It still wasn’t pleasant to talk sometimes but in the end he was glad to have another man on the Isle he could relate to. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

Dog slept at the foot of the bed. He sat close to Sandor’s feet during meal times. If Sandor went to bathe then Dog stayed in place by the back door to the kitchens. He rarely left his new master’s side. Stranger objected at first but soon grew used to the mutt. All three of them would go riding off together, Sandor on Stranger’s back and Dog running beside the stallion. Most people on the Isle took a liking to the dog, feeding him scraps from the table or patting his head. He became a sigil of sorts and was soon everyone’s friend. It gave others a chance to approach Sandor who had not done so already. Whatever life the hound had left behind, he seemed not to miss it at all. 

 

Sometimes Idla was able to sneak away with the three of them. He took her back to the clearing and made love to her in the flowers. Stranger and Dog would amuse themselves while they coupled with lustful abandon. There was no one out that far to hear their pleasured noises. They took full advantage of it, finding new ways to make the other scream. Once, she had sat him up against a tree and turned herself around backwards on his lap. She took him into her that way and rode him. She leaned back into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her while they gazed at the sun setting on the water together. He’d never felt more blessed then he did in that moment when he felt himself fall apart inside of her, the sun sinking into burning water before him. He was amazed at the strange, wonderful clan they all had become.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

“Not tonight,” she said in answer to his latest endeavor into what he would do to her in their bed. 

 

“The fuck?” he barked. She’d never said no before. She blushed before continuing. 

 

“My moonblood is flowing,” she explained. 

 

He grumbled. It was a fair excuse but he didn’t have to like it. He didn’t know much about it though. 

 

“How long?” 

 

“Four, maybe five days. It never flows for long. Be thankful it only comes every two or three moons for me.”

 

Five days? Five days wasn’t long? It could be more than that? He really didn’t care for her traitorous woman parts now. And he’d have to keep away from her every other month? Fuck. He knew a way around that though. 

 

“Wouldn’t have it if you’d stop drinking that tea,” he reasoned. 

 

She scoffed at him, “And then what? Grow a bastard in my belly?” 

 

She caught the look of hurt in his eyes and tried to back track.

 

“I’ll do a lot for you, Sandor, but having a babe out of wedlock isn’t one of them. Are you ready for that wedding?” 

 

He shook his head, looking at the floor like a scolded child. 

 

“Then it’s tea and moonblood,” she huffed, settling back into her work. 

 

He grumbled an apology and left her. He tried to be angry but then he realized she hadn’t said no to children with him. Only no to having them without a wedding first. His heart soared and then sank again. She wanted vows from him. He didn’t know if he could ever give her that. But one day. Maybe. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

He tried to keep busy to pass the time during her flow. They still talked and spent time together in the day but she kept to her own room at night. He had told her she could stay with him and she had firmly turned him down. She was embarrassed she said. Sometimes blood leaked in the night. He told her he was used to the sight of blood. Didn’t matter where it came from, it all looked the same. She still shook her head no. 

 

So he spent his evenings seeking out other forms of entertainment. He took Maddox and Quintin out into the woods to set snares for rabbits. The following morning they would check them. Maddox would whoop in victory when they found a dead animal and delight in skinning it. Quintin would smack at bugs and look like he’d rather be somewhere else. He caught Quintin carrying a wooden board one night and suddenly found himself losing game after game of draughts. The Maester had seen the two and offered to teach him chess. He shrugged and tried but he was even worse at that game then he was at the other. 

 

Harper was good at leather working and helped him mend his armor. Brother’s Pentnook and Merkle expressed interest in learning to ride bare back as Idla had so he settled them each on a mare and gave them a few short lessons in the fields. It would take weeks he told them to train the mares to listen to their silent commands. 

 

He took long baths. He pestered Alva. He had never realized before how much energy he spent lying in Idla’s arms. He finally grew so bored he dragged poor Dog into a wooden tub for a bath. The furry beast howled and cried like it was being beaten. He let it go in the middle of its soaking. He couldn’t stand to here it yelping any longer. Four days down. One more to go. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

There was a solid knock at his door. It was too early in the evening to be Idla. His second guess was that is was the Elder Brother. His hunch was proven correct when he opened the door. 

 

“Good evening,” the Brother greeted him. “May I come in?”

 

Sandor shrugged and moved out of the way so the Brother could enter. He’d been polishing his boots before he was interrupted. He kicked the pile towards his bed to give the man the chair by the fireplace. He sat on the bed and waited. There was always a reason the Elder Brother came calling. It was never just to politely say hello. The Elder Brother entered the room and took the seat he had been offered. He was dragging a large spade behind him. They sat for a time in silence, each waiting for the other to talk. Dog came over, drooling like mad, to place his head on the Elder Brother’s lap. Sandor broke first. 

 

“Alright, old man,” he taunted knowing full well they were nearly identical in age, “What’s the shovel for?”

 

“I’m glad you asked,” the Brother told him. “It seems I may have another job for you here on our Isle. Idla tells me you’re still mending well and you seem to have a lot of free time on your hands.” There was a knowing smirk on the man’s face that Sandor didn’t like. 

 

The Brother continued, “Since the raiding on nearby villages has yet to cease, we find ourselves with the dead washing up on our shores. It seems a sin to leave them to the birds. How would you feel about burying them?”

 

Sandor sneered. What was he on about? There had to be plenty of others able to do this work. Why he was being asked was beyond him. 

 

“A few of the novice Brothers were handling the chore,” the Elder Brother explained, almost reading his thoughts, “But then the dead women and children started to wash up . . .”

 

“And you thought I could handle it better than them?” Sandor finished for him. 

 

“How many men have you put in the ground because of your rage?” the Brother questioned, turning the conversation abruptly. 

 

“Couldn’t say,” Sandor answered. It was the truth. 

 

“ Hundreds?”

 

“More.”

 

“Thousands?”

 

“Sounds right. Could be more.”

 

“How many women?”

 

Sandor gave the other man a glare and grunted, “More than a dozen. Less than a hundred.”

 

“And children?” The man was relentless and Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He paused a long moment before answering.

 

“Five.” 

 

“And did you ever bury a single one?”

 

“Course I didn’t,” he growled. 

 

“All those people dead by your hands and you left them to rot. How many weren’t killed in the line of duty? How many were simply in the way of your anger?” 

 

He didn’t answer. He was starting to feel shame. The Elder Brother pressed on. 

 

“None of them deserved to die. None. The ones cut down by your fury should have been buried. A man going into war knows he may not see the ground but the others deserved something better. Are you pleased with yourself for ending so many lives and then desecrating their souls after?”

 

“No? I don’t know. I never thought about it,” he grumbled. He saw the sense in what he was being told. It hadn’t been necessary to slay everyone that he had in his lifetime. And some of them, like the children, still haunted his dreams. 

 

“Become our Gravedigger and atone for the lives you didn’t have to take. Repent and beg forgiveness for the children you murdered by burying their sisters and brothers.”

 

The Elder Brother held the spade out to him and Sandor looked at it for few moments before reaching out his hand to take it. The Brother smiled at him. 

 

“It is good to see you changing, however, there is one thing I would ask of you before you take up this calling,” the Brother cautioned. Sandor lifted a questioning eyebrow. 

 

“In order to start walking the path to redemption you must first bury your past. Your former self, your sins, your ghosts. They must all be buried.”

 

“How?” he asked. 

 

“Dig a hole and toss them in. Cover them with earth and let them trouble you no more. Do this, before you bury anyone or anything else. Can you see this through?” 

 

Sandor sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. But he did feel remorse somewhere inside of him for those whom he had cut down for merely being in his way. The ones that he had murdered in the grips of cold blooded fury. That wasn’t the type of man who deserved this place and these people. He would have strangled that man if he ever tried to lay with Idla. The Hound was sinking further and further behind him. The Elder Brother was right. That part of him needed to be cast aside and buried. He could do this. For her and for himself. 

 

“Aye,” he finally told the Brother solemnly. 

 

“Good. Do so in your own time but don’t squander this new life you’ve acquired,” the devoted man warned him. He rose and placed a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. 

 

“Do you remember I promised you I would tell you of your name’s origin?”

 

Sandor only nodded in reply. 

 

“It’s a bastard version of Alexander.” 

 

Snorting, Sandor looked to the floor. Of course his would be a lesser name. The Elder Brother shook his shoulder, bidding him to look up at the man. 

 

“It means ‘man’s defender’. You are a worthy man Sandor Clegane, as all men are worthy and equal. All men must strive to do what is right. You were given a name that suits you well.” 

 

The Elder Brother gave him a small smile and made his way to the door. Sandor swallowed thickly and gazed at the shovel in his hands. That was a hell of a name to live up to, he thought. But he would try his best to be the man they thought he was. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Idla came to him that night. Her moonblood had stopped but for a second time he found himself too wrapped up in his thoughts to give desire a chance. She had sensed his change in mood since she had seen him earlier in the day. She disrobed first and then pulled his own clothes off of him. Her eyes were soft and understanding. She didn’t seem angry or hurt at his lack of response and he sighed deeply, pulling her into his lap. She kissed at his scars, whispering that it was alright. He told her of the Elder Brother’s visit. She listened and nodded, saying it was a good idea. The Elder Brother was an intelligent man, she told him.

 

“When will you do it?” she asked.

 

“Tomorrow might be. Get it over with. No point dragging it out,” he reasoned. 

 

“Shall I come with you?”

 

“No,” – he held her tighter- “Need to do it on my own.”

 

She nodded again and didn’t argue with him. Pressing him back onto the bed, she stretched her body out to touch as much of her skin to his as she could. He took comfort in it. They laid side by side, hands clasped together until sleep claimed them both.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get serious folks. I have a request. I am teary eyed Hound begging you to go on youtube and type in “Mumford and Sons Ghosts That We Knew Album Version” and listen to it once or twice (or more). This chapter would not exist without that song. If you need a good working link or the lyrics please private message me. IGNORE the lyrics on youtube. Every video I’ve watched gets them wrong. Especially the really important bit to me. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is mood music you need for this chapter. Trust me. 
> 
>  
> 
> “But hold me still. And bury my heart on the coal.  
> Hold me still. Bury my heart next to yours.”

The next morning she snuck out of his hut well before dawn. He didn’t even stir. When he finally rose from sleep, her side of the bed was cold. She was giving him space he knew and not angry with him. If she had been angry she would have stayed to yell at him. 

 

After the morning meal, he took the spade up past the sloping hill that led to the grave yards. The black leather satchel of memories moved within his pocket with every step. He could see the animal fields behind him and the front of the main building off to his right, a good distance away. Dog had followed him and now sat lazily under the one tree near them. Finding a space big enough, he set the shovel in the ground and used his good leg to push it into the earth. Three graves he planned on digging today. It was going to be a long undertaking. 

 

The first grave was the easiest to dig but the hardest to fill. This one was for the women in his life. It was shallow, but still deep enough to make a trench that came up to his waist by the time he was satisfied with it. He took out the bag and dug through it for the locket, the ring and the scrap of cloth he’d been foolish enough to steal back the night the Blackwater had burned. 

 

He had sat in the Little Bird’s chamber, his belly full of wine and his heart full of terrifying freedom. He didn’t know where else to go while he drank and waited for his nerves to calm. She was the only thing he could focus on. He drank more. His mind came up with an insane plan to take her away. To save her. To protect her as he had always vowed he would. And maybe, one day, she could see him the way he saw her. His eye had landed on her dresser, where multiple odds and ends that women kept were scattered. Underneath one of her bottles of perfume there was a bit of cloth that looked alarmingly familiar. He got up to inspect it closer. Surprise took him as he realized it was the handkerchief he had given her ages ago. 

 

But why would she keep it? He suddenly feared she would reject him. He knew it in his bones and who could blame her? He was never going to be something to be cherished and wanted. Yes, he had offered her his handkerchief but that didn’t make him a good man. She had kept it like she thought it was something extraordinary and it wasn’t. Nothing he did was exceptional. He wasn’t special. She’d warped his actions into something else as usual. All she desired was a Knight and he was no Ser. Before he could think better of it, he had tucked the cloth away in his pocket. If she wouldn’t come at least he would have one small symbol to remember her by. 

 

Clearing his head with a shake, he stood before the open grave. The piece of cloth fluttered between his fingers in the breeze for a moment before he let it fall into the hole. When he thought back on that night, he could only say his feelings towards the Little Bird were a fantastically confusing fucked up mess. He still wasn’t sure if he’d wanted to fuck her or keep her safe. Now? Now she still held anchor somewhere in his heart. She had pushed at a door inside him he had long thought closed and burnt to ashes. She had reminded him that he wasn’t dead inside. Because of her he was able to accept Idla’s attentions now. He was grateful for the lessons the Little Bird had taught him but it was time to stop carrying around her token. He worried about her still sometimes but he had to let her go. He had new bonds to tend to now and she was one more link on the chain that held the Hound. 

 

Next came the half locket that was his sister’s. He held it in his open hand for many long minutes. This was the most difficult item for him to part with. But why keep it? All it did was tie him down with guilt and pain. He tried to reassure himself that just because the locket would be gone, it didn’t mean she had to be as well. There were good memories of them laughing, throwing mud at each other and eating wild berries until their hands were stained purple. His smile was bitter sweet as he tossed the locket down into the grave as well. One day he would share the pleasant memories with Idla so she could live them as well. 

 

The ring that had been his mother’s was the last women’s item for him to send off. It seemed so tiny, though he didn’t recall his mother having small hands. It only made it to the middle knuckle on his little finger. He didn’t remember much about his mother. She had died when he was young and he was absolutely not going to think about that day now. 

 

He could recall her hair. It was much like his own. His sister and brother had straight black hair and pale blue eyes like their father. He had inherited his mother’s fine, brown waves and gray eyes. It gave him a bit of peace to know that perhaps, one day if he could ever find the courage to reach for it, he would give the same gift to his children and in that act his mother would live on. He held the ring high above the grave but then took his hand back. He would cast aside this ghost as the Elder Brother had instructed him, but not into the cold ground. There was another way to be free of the ring. It went back into his pocket for later. 

 

He heard the bell ring out for the miday meal but kept at his task, shoveling in dirt on top of the objects he had thrown in. Every shovelful was a memory, a feeling, or a thought given to those he had lost. There were sad ones and a few merry ones. Ones that made him feel fury once again and others that brought a lump to his throat. Dog had wondered off towards the main building. The animal knew the bell meant food. As he pushed the spade back into the ground to start on the second grave, he saw Dog returning with Idla trailing behind. 

 

She was silent and watched him dig for a minute. Placing two skins of water, a loaf of bread, and an apple on a large rock, she approached him. He didn’t want to talk right now. He wanted to be left alone. She saw this and though he knew she wanted to reach out to him, she twisted her fingers into the front of her dress instead and nodded to him. She walked back up the small hill, probably to the sick house. 

 

The work was getting harder and the damned robes were making him sweat like a fucking hog. He shed the brown clothes and drank from one of the water skins Idla had left. He ignored the food. This grave went faster than the first. Anger fueled him through the labor. This one was for the men of his family. He didn’t think they deserved graves but his hatred towards them needed a new home to dwell in. He could no longer carry it inside his heart and let it share a space with his feelings towards Idla. 

 

The Elder Brother had come walking down the path and sat on the rock next to the loaf of bread. Neither man said a word to each other. The Brother watched him spit twice into the grave meant for his brother and father. He had nothing else to give them. He shoveled dirt in over his offering just as he had with the first grave. But this time, every scoop of earth was a bit of hatred that he did his best to let go of. The Elder Brother rose and nodded to him much like Idla had earlier. Dog had grown bored and wondered off. He was left to dig the last grave completely alone. 

 

He was aching at this point. Muscles he hadn’t used in months screamed at him but he kept at his task. His bad leg burned and made him wince. He wasn’t finished yet though. There was one more person to lay to rest. Once the final grave was deep enough he threw the shovel aside and climbed down into it. He took the tooth from the pouch and held it in his palm. It seemed much heavier than it looked. 

 

The Elder Brother probably would have preferred that he toss the armor and sword into the ground but he wasn’t stupid. He could set his rage aside but he would never forget how to defend what was his. The Quiet Isle prided itself on being a place of peace where war could never come. He knew better. War could come at anytime, anywhere and there were dangerous days ahead. The Stark motto was true. Winter was coming. It was coming for them all and he’d let himself be buggered first before he buried his sword, leaving him no way to protect himself and Idla. 

 

He kept the Gold Dragon as well. Stranger was to be a stud to three mares soon and he had been offered fifty percent of their foal’s profit. However, that money wouldn’t come in for two more years. If he had a need to move before then the gold would come in handy. He had never meant to spend it but it was all the wealth he had left in the world. He would gladly trade it in for safe passage if that was what was necessary. 

 

The tooth was all that was left of the Hound. A name he’d never chosen. Gregor had given it to him after he took to spending time with the beasts after his face had melted. Dogs never cared what you looked like. They remained loyal no matter what. He had lashed out, gaining a reputation for barking and biting just like the mutts he kept company with and the name had stuck. Later, in his twenties, it turned into the degrading and plain “dog”. He’d been so dead and numb inside at that point he didn’t give a shit anymore what anyone called him. At least that’s what he told himself. At night he would drink himself into blackness and hear a woman’s voice calling him by his true name. He would wake up, sometimes with dried tears on his face, angry at his weakness and start sucking down wine all over again. He fought, he fucked, he drank. The cycle repeated for many years as he lost more and more of himself. 

 

Then he had almost died. He had been so close to feeling the Stranger’s arms around him. He didn’t recall much about that day. The memories were still foggy. There had been pain. More pain than he ever thought he was capable of bearing. He remembered blue eyes and a strong, woman’s voice telling him over and over again that he wouldn’t die. And he hadn’t. He was living, breathing, toiling and fucking once again. There was nothing else to do but live. Live as he wanted. The blue eyes were still with him, dragging him into a light that scorched his senses. It was intense. It was magnificent. It was all he had dreamed it would be. He threw the tooth into the dirt and packed it down with his boot. The Hound was dead and the Gravedigger lived. 

 

The bell for the final meal rang. It had started to rain. A drizzle had begun when he had climbed out of the hole but now it poured. He pressed on in his duty. The dirt piled up in the last hole and he thought on all those he had slain. This time, every toss of dirt was a new face the Hound had taken. There were so many, he realized. So very many. 

 

Hundreds didn’t seem a lot until one had to pick up dirt that many times. And he knew this one grave couldn’t contain all of them. He let his head sink to his chest when the last bit of soil found its place on top of the Hound’s grave. He dropped down into the mud, exhausted both physically and mentally. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Idla had gone to the main building for the final meal of the day. She picked at her food. She had shared the news of Sandor’s challenge with Jocelyn and the young woman was doing her best to try and distract her. It wasn’t working. Finally, she sighed and took her plate to the kitchens. Alva saw her troubled stance and asked what was wrong. She gave the woman a brief synopsis. She wanted to help Sandor but he acted like he didn’t want her near. The old woman nodded with wisdom in her eyes. 

 

“Sometimes a man thinks he stands alone. He thinks he is the only one able to carry his burdens. It is up to his woman to prove him wrong,” she sagely told Idla. 

 

Idla took the woman’s words to heart and made her way to the covered front porch of the main building. It was starting to go dark, dusk settling in the air. It had been pouring down rain minutes ago but now the clouds had stopped their torrent. The sky was still dripping but it wasn’t a storm any longer. She could just make out the shape of him. It looked like he was sitting on the ground. She frowned. She didn’t think he had eaten or taken any rest during the day. And now, it was clear he had sat out in the rain as well. She heard footsteps behind her. Maester Ulchard was near her arm and followed her gaze to watch Sandor. 

 

“That is a man in need if ever I saw one,” the aging man whispered, causing Idla to bite at her lip. 

 

There was more noise as people began filing out of the main building. Some took note of her and the Maester. Jocelyn, Maddox, and Brothers Harper and Merkel all stood close by her. They all understood the struggle before them but were at a loss as to what they should do about it. Jocelyn was the one to speak. 

 

“Someone ought to go to him,” she said quietly. 

 

Idla drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She knew the statement had been addressed to her. No one else would dare to approach him now. She pushed through the small crowd and stepped out into the rainfall. Her shoes were full of mud and her dress half soaked by the time she reached him. He didn’t acknowledge her. He was staring off at the middle grave, his legs spread out straight in front of him and his hands were palm up on his thighs. She leaned over a bit to see his face. She had expected anger. There was none. Misery, pure and true marred his features. She knelt down in the mud on his left side, taking one of his hands and pulling it onto her lap. He didn’t fight her but he didn’t squeeze back either. She stayed quiet for him. He would talk if he wanted to. She stroked the scars on his palm. He sat unmoving, letting the rain fall through his hair and down into his eyes. 

 

Long minutes stretched on before she heard the squelching of footsteps behind them. She turned her head to see the Elder Brother making his way through the downpour to them. The robed man sat to Sandor’s right, cross legged and was silent as well. More followed him. Master Ulchard, Maddox and Quintin all trudged through the muck to stand near the Elder Brother. Idla’s eyes began to fill with tears. Sandor was far from alone and it wasn’t just her showing him that fact. Brothers Merkel, Pentnook and Harper were next to join the damp group. They stood off to the side, bowing their heads to the freshly dug graves. Idla felt a hand at her shoulder and looked up to see Alva, a motherly smile on her lips. 

 

Jocelyn was the last to merge with the small gathering. Idla knew it must have been hard for the girl to overcome her fears and join them. The little slip of a woman sat in the mud beside Idla, taking her free hand. She couldn’t stop the sob that broke free from her throat. It meant the world to her that there were others besides herself who were willing to claim him. He hadn’t moved a muscle while everyone had huddled around him but she felt a twitch in the fingers she clasped. She saw his Adam’s apple work as he swallowed several times. 

 

Once everyone had settled in calm respect, the Elder Brother rose and went to a crumbling stone wall nearby. He took up one of the stones and walked over to the middle grave. 

 

“This one is yours?” he asked Sandor.

 

Sandor nodded once. The Elder Brother dropped the stone onto the grave and went back to the wall for more. Maddox picked up on what was happening and ran over to help. Quintin and all the other men soon followed suit. One by one they dragged stones over to the grave of the Hound and helped to bury him. Idla had to keep swiping madly at her eyes. Jocelyn patted her hand and sniffed herself. Alva went over to the rock pile and selected a few smaller stones to set upon the grave. 

 

Sandor’s eyes were filling with unshed tears and she squeezed his hand with all of her might. She wanted to scream at him to make him understand how much he was loved. Make him see what she saw but she couldn’t. Not with everyone there. Suddenly he dropped her hand and stood, stumbling a few paces, until he found his balance. Then he stormed off in the direction of his hut. She sat cold, wet and speechless in the mud. They all watched him leave. Even from their great distance away they could hear his door slam when he shut it behind him. She longed to go after him and turned to the Elder Brother, her eyes pleading for him to understand. The Brother lifted a single finger to her in permission and she tore off across the fields to his hut. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

She didn’t knock when she reached his door. This was her proper place. Consent wasn’t needed anymore for her to enter. She walked into a disaster. The tables had been upturned. The chair broken. Had there been any other furniture she was sure it would have been destroyed as well. He was never going to completely shed all of his anger she realized. It would always hold some power over him, especially when he was hurt and confused. He was sitting on the bed, forearms on his thighs and his head hanging low. He was trembling. Dog paced the floor, whining in worry. 

 

“Down!” she commanded the dog and it obeyed her, taking its usual place on the floor near the foot of the bed. She was freezing. Her rain soaked clothing had become a blanket of ice and she was sure he felt the same. She knelt at the hearth and quickly started a fire. He never moved. 

 

She chewed her lip with a fury. Where did she even begin? There was one place to start, she thought. Skin on skin seemed to always calm him. He had grown accustomed to her touches and acted like a cat in the sun when she brushed his body with her own. She pulled at the ties on her dress, shedding them first and then her small clothes. She grew warm in the heat of the fire now that her chilled garments were off of her body. Carefully walking over to him, she tugged at his shirt. He wouldn’t budge. He was still shaking. 

 

Sighing, she dropped to her knees once again and looked up at him. His eyes were shut tight and his entire face was screwed up in pain. He wasn’t trembling from cold. Shock hit her hard in the gut when it occurred to her that he was either trying desperately hard not to break, or he had already done so and was now so far gone he couldn’t even weep properly. She felt like she might vomit, she was so distressed for him. She fretted at her lip till she tasted blood, pulling at his face with her hands. He shook his head, trying to free himself from her but she held fast. 

 

“Don’t,” she told him, raising her voice, “Don’t you push me away. I’m here. I’m staying. You have to accept that.”

 

He did sob then, pressing his eyes to her hands. She let him, kissing his hair. 

 

“Listen to me. Do you hear me?” she questioned. He nodded against her hands so she continued, “Do you understand why everyone sat with you? Why they put stones on that grave?” 

 

He shook his head this time, broken noises still coming from deep in his throat. She found his scarred ear and pressed her lips right to it. 

 

“Because they love you,” she told him. “We all love you. I love you.” 

 

He wailed and moaned into her hands. She moved his face to her chest, above her breasts and rocked him while he spent his misery in tears on her skin. When his sobs subsided to whimpers she forced his face back up to look at hers. 

 

“You do know that right?” she said softly, “How much I love you?” She’d never given voice to her devotion before. She had always assumed he knew and understood. She had been wrong. Horribly wrong. The look he gave her was that of a child who’d been given a glorious gift it couldn’t begin to comprehend. Guilt gnawed at her. She had been stupid. If he wasn’t used to kindness what had made her think he was used to receiving love? 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

He stared at her in wonder. He had been treading the waters of memory all day. It had drained him body and soul. A bottomless sadness had taken him once he had finished the last grave. If he wasn’t the Hound, if he didn’t have his hatred and grief to cling to anymore, than who was he? Twice now in his life time he had buried himself. Once, when his face had burned, his heart had gone up in flames on the coal as well and buried itself in the ash. Any scrap of innocence he held within him died that day. The hole inside him filled with rage. Today, he had buried a heart of hatred. Placed it right next to the grave that held his sister’s silver heart. He was once again left empty, a hole in his chest he didn’t know how to fill. 

 

Idla had come to him but he was frozen inside. Even her warmth couldn’t touch him. He was lost. He was drowning. He didn’t know himself anymore and it was frightening. Then the others had come. More and more people whom he had come to know surrounded him. They took on his burdens as their own, piling stones on top of the grave that represented his former self. It had broken him. It had been so long since anyone had called him their own and there were almost a dozen of such people now around him. Brothers, young and old, a sister, a mother and a lover as well. It was too much to take in and he left them all in a hurry before he became a bawling mess at their feet. 

 

She had followed him. Of course she had followed him. Who else would have at that point? He had trembled and shook trying to keep his tears inside. He knew once they started there would be no end to them. He hadn’t known he had so many stored up to be released. She had knelt at his feet pulling at his face and speaking words of love to him. He had sobbed like he’d never done so before. He had barely any idea of his surroundings as his wretchedness flowed from him. He felt her skin and smelled her scent and he wept until he had nothing else left to purge. 

 

His face was in her hands once more, bidding him to look at her through blurry eyes. She told him she loved him again and he felt his heart stop. She had that look in her eye. That funny look of hers he had never been sure of but she continued to give him. It was in her eyes now as she told him of her love. She’d been giving him that look for months. Since he had been in the sick house. He recalled a day he had snapped at her and she had offered forgiveness in the form of a kiss. She had loved him then? He was in the grips of a fucking miracle. He felt tears fall once more as he sought out her lips. He pressed his mouth to hers. 

 

“Say it again,” he ordered, his voice thick with emotion.

 

“I love you,” she told him firmly. He caught the words in his mouth, breathing them in while she smiled. He rumbled deep in his chest, closing his eyes to taste her. His hands wandered up her arms to find her breasts and knead. She loved him! This day had not left him to wallow in despair after all. The Hound may be dead but Sandor Clegane lived and was loved. He felt his cock grow rock hard within moments. They hadn’t coupled in days and he was suddenly frantic to lose himself in her while she mewled her new words to him. 

 

She pulled at his shirt again and this time he didn’t stop her, letting her stand to haul the sopping wet clothing over his head. He grabbed at her waist to draw her close. Her breasts were chilled so he took as much of them as he could in his mouth to warm them. One and then the other. She hummed in happiness above him. When he let the second nipple slip from his mouth, she pulled at his hands so that he would stand. She helped him out of his breeches as well and then dragged him over to the fire. They both stood pressed together without a trace of space between them, letting the flames warm them. He put his nose in her hair and breathed deeply. 

 

When barefoot, she came up level to his heart and that’s where she now placed her head. His cock pressed into her belly. He felt an urgency to be inside her but he also didn’t feel like rushing. He always rushed, afraid that she would change her mind or some other twist of fate would take her away. He didn’t know of or understand all the intricacies of love. The only thing he knew for certain was if she said she loved him that meant she wanted him by her side for a long, long time. There was no longer a need to move at a hurried pace. He had time. 

 

They stood by the fire and held one another. Using his hands, he moved over any skin he could find within his reach. It was like discovering her all over again. He felt the dip of her lower spine and the swell of her hips. The skin on the side of her ribs, just under her breast, was a soft as a babe’s. She had a raised freckle on her left shoulder blade. He pulled at the ribbons holding up her braids and shook her hair loose letting it begin to dry. She nuzzled farther into his chest and squeezed at his upper arms. 

 

Tilting her jaw up, he claimed her mouth, moving slowly and savoring each shift of her lips. She suckled his bottom lip and he growled. He fucking adored that little trick of hers. Then her tongue flicked out to lick the spot on his chin he kept bare and he groaned. She’d found something new to drive him wild. He wasn’t going to let her have all the fun though. He pulled her hair until her head tilted back, exposing her neck to him. Using his teeth he bit and scraped at her while she panted, unable to move from his tight grasp on her hair. He knew she liked it when he gave her a taste of his strength. She clawed at his back and he let her go, dipping a hand between them to feel at her heat. She was wet. Good. He was ready to move on. 

 

Once they reached the bed, they ended up lying side by side, facing each other. She stroked his face and he mirrored her actions. She kissed the corners of his eyes and he did the same to her. She smiled and he couldn’t help but copy her once again. 

 

“Say it again,” he bid her. 

 

“I love you!” she laughed. She was enjoying this new found phrase as much as he. 

 

He dragged his fingers tips down her body and back once more to her core. He used one finger to rub at her, watching her eyes close while she gasped. She was beautiful. He continued to slide his fingers through her folds and inside her at a deliberately measured tempo. Her hands burrowed their way between their bodies as well and she grasped him firmly. He grunted and jerked into her hands. She used a thumb to glide over the head of him. He forgot what he was doing as she pinched the tip of him between her fingers and then pumped him with her fist. He put a hand over hers and showed her the rhythm he liked. It was good. Too fucking good and he pulled at her wrists to get her to stop. She grabbed him tighter and he whimpered. 

 

“Idla, please,” he rasped, “too close.” 

 

“That’s the point, love,” she whispered huskily into his ear. “This day is yours. Let me please you.” 

 

She put one hand to his jaw like he had done to her earlier and kissed him deeply. He moaned while she continued to stroke him with her other. He closed his eyes and let the sensations take him. She was back to using two hands again, making sure that every inch of him felt her milking him. He rocked his hips up into her hands. She twisted them around him and he clutched at her, feeling the muscles around the base of his cock tighten. 

 

“Say it again,” he begged behind closed eyelids. He was going to spill at any second and wanted to hear the words. 

 

“I love you,” she soothed. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “Sandor, I love you.”

 

That did it. His name coupled with the word love sent him flying over the edge. He screamed and bucked into her hands, spasms racking his body as he felt his seed shoot all over her belly and fingers. He clenched his jaw and struggled for breath. Gods, how was he even still alive? His heart was beating so fast. She placed small, gentle kisses to his face until he opened his eyes to look at her. She released her hold on his manhood and looked down between them giggling. 

 

“I’m messy,” she told him, wrinkling her nose and staring at her hands. 

 

“Aye,” he told her, “You wanted to do it.” 

 

He couldn’t help but laugh as well though. There were still little innocent things about her he found appealing. She crawled over him, keeping her hands held up to search for a rag and, finding none, settled on her small clothes. She used the still damp clothing to wipe at herself. He watched. There was some ancient energy inside him, seeing his seed marking her skin, which left him dazed. He planned on spending many hours lying with her this night. 

 

“Get back here,” he ordered her “Not done with you yet.”


	16. Chpater 16

He was beyond exhausted. The physical labor and emotional turmoil of the day had caught up to him, leaving him drained of all energy. He had pleasured her with his mouth again, taking pride in her throaty calls as she peaked. Then she had rolled him over onto his back and rode him until he was screaming again. The things she did to him! He was learning that there was much to be achieved while coupling that he knew nothing about before. Dozens of whores he’d had but none of them had ever made him feel. None of them had shown him love. That was the key. Something small and agreeable turned into a storm of rapture when love came into play. 

 

When he lay spent for the second time that evening, she had pressed at his sides, making him flip over onto his stomach. She had rubbed down his back, shoulders, calves and even his feet until he rumbled in contentment. This, he could say with clarity, felt like happiness. His muscles thanked her for her consideration. He managed to mumble a spoken thanks as well before he drifted off to sleep. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Ridiculous! She was being absolutely ridiculous! She was prancing around the room as she found her clothes and dressed. Singing, she stepped into her small clothes. Today was the mass celebration of name days and she looked to be giddy as a child. He couldn’t help but smile at her though. It pleased him to see her so happy. She gave him his good bye kiss, telling him of her love once again, and ran out the door. 

 

He didn’t see her again until the first meal was nearly over. Brother Harper had been telling him the new chair he asked for was almost done and then the man had stopped in midsentence. He followed the Brother’s gaze to see Idla walking through the main doorway. She was stunning. A pale yellow dress he hadn’t seen before clung to her body and she had taken extra time with her hair. It was plaited into a cascade of waterfall braids. He turned to see Harper still staring and punched him in arm. 

 

“Sorry,” the Brother mumbled and lowered his eyes. 

 

Then he saw that he was going to have to hit half the men in the room. He grumbled. She was his. Didn’t they know that? They should be keeping their eyes to themselves. Jealousy seized him fast when he thought about her bathing. He hadn’t thought about that until now but there were times she bathed without him. That would stop immediately. There was no way in all the Seven Hells that he was going to risk any of them looking at her then. She walked right over to him with no hesitation and sat down beside him. That horrible knot in his throat that made him feel weak sprang up at her actions. She’d shown the whole room whom she belonged to without him having to say a word about it. Filling her plate, she tried to talk to him but he couldn’t manage to force any words past that damn lump still settled inside him. He nodded and grunted his replies instead. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

After their meal, she had tried to tend to her duties as a Healer. There were two Brothers in the sick house with a nasty, phlegm producing cough. Master Ulchard had scolded her when she arrived though, telling her he could handle it. She was ordered to go enjoy her youth. 

 

So she made her way back towards the main building. There were buckets of berries and apples set out along with cool sage water and lemon drink. There were games of both physical and mental skill going on all around her. She saw Quintin with his wooden board, sitting on a flat piece of lawn with a Brother playing draughts. The women and a few Brothers were chasing each other around at a game of hoodman’s blind. And, surprisingly, she saw Sandor at one of the horseshoe pits with Brother Pentnook. She stopped first to check the progress of Quintin’s game and saw that he was still winning at his favorite past time. 

 

When she made it to the horseshoe pits, Sandor was busy gathering up iron shoes from the sawdust that had been strewn on the ground. He tossed one of the hunks of metal at her and she yipped. Her reflexes were fast though and she caught it. He smirked at her. 

 

“Want to try? Think you can throw it?” he taunted. 

 

She stuck out her tongue at him. It didn’t seem so hard. You only had to make it go to the other little pole sticking up from the ground. The little pole that was far away from her. Very far away from her. She straightened her posture. She would stand up to his challenge. She hurled the horseshoe as hard as she could over her head and frowned when it landed with a solid thunk in the ground a few feet ahead of her. Sandor howled with laughter and bent over double. Flushing red with mortification she stomped her foot. 

 

“Well at least I tried!” she yelled at him. He swiped at his eyes, calming his laughter. 

 

“Aye, you did,” he reassured her. “Try it this way.” He placed another curved piece of metal into her hands and pressed himself against her back. Lowering her hand with his own, he showed her how to toss the shoe from her hip, high up into the air. There was a clank as the tip of it knocked against the pole at the other end of the pit. It didn’t sit around the pole like it was supposed to but that try had gone much better than the first. She clapped at her achievement. 

 

“Better,” he rumbled into her ear. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re fucking beautiful right now” he told her. She shivered. They kept at the game for an hour until her arm felt like jelly and she sat with Dog, watching the two men while resting. Sandor was much better at this test of muscle than he was at the Maester’s chess board. It didn’t surprise her all that much. He was man of physical strength not mental. Not that he was dull. Far from it. But he wasn’t a scholar either. He did best when his body was taxed and not his mind. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Towards the afternoon, he helped some of the other men heft a few tables from the great hall, outside. Plates of cold meat, cheese and bread were piled high on top of them so that everyone could eat when they pleased. He sat in the grass with Idla, Maddox and Quintin while they all ate. The kitchen and laundry help spread out on the lawns as well, joining in the merriment for a few hours. Alva brought a sponge cake over for Maddox and Idla, wishing them a happy name day. He choked on his food. She’d had a name day and not told him? He wasn’t even sure if he remembered when his was and he didn’t care. But that sort of thing was important to women wasn’t it? He felt like he had somehow failed her. 

 

She didn’t seem to take any notice of his struggle to get his food down, busying herself with dividing the treat up between them. She told Alva to sit with them and have a slice as well. Alva took the space next to Sandor and after three bites declared herself full, pushing the rest of her sweet onto Sandor’s plate. Idla grinned at them. He scowled but ate the cake anyway. 

 

After their meal most everyone went back to their games. He lost her somewhere in the crowd as Jocelyn dragged her away to play hide and seek. He had no idea how the girl was going to hide anywhere with the great belly that now hung in front of her. Jocelyn waddled as well which wasn’t going to help her run. He shrugged. Wasn’t his place to question expecting mothers. He was restless in the crowd without Idla so he took to Strangers back until the evening meal. 

 

There was music going when he entered the hall. Most of the food had been set to the side of the room on tables like the mid day meal had been. Everyone stood or sat where they pleased talking, eating and dancing. He spotted Idla a short distance away. She was nibbling at a corn fritter and talking with Brother Pentnook. The Brother hailed him over.

 

“Ah, Sandor! I was just asking the lady for a dance. You don’t mind do you?” the younger man asked. 

 

He sure as fuck minded. He was about to tell the man so when Idla stepped in between them. 

 

“I think I should give Sandor the first dance, don’t you think?” she told Pentnook. The Brother nodded his head in agreement and backed away. 

 

“Sorry,” she giggled. “Did you want to dance? I didn’t mean to put you on the spot I just didn’t want poor Pentnook to end up with a bloody nose.”

 

He shrugged. He didn’t know how to dance. He hadn’t been taught and he sure as hell had never been asked to do so. But if it was what she wanted he could try. She sensed his unease. Grabbing one of his hands she led him out the main door onto the porch. There was no one out there but them and the music could still be heard. 

 

“Like this,” she instructed, turning him to face her, “You’re supposed to bow first.”  
He snorted. 

 

“Alright, no bow,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. She stood at his side, putting his arm out and placing hers over top. 

 

“It’s one step forward, one back, two forward, then turn and face,” she said. He looked at her like she’d asked him to rope the moon. “Just count to four. Every time you count move your feet.” 

 

He stumbled through the steps she gave him. She counted out loud to help and he stepped on her feet. He felt every bit the oafish giant he knew he was but she only laughed and kissed his cheek. Turning him so that they were face to face she tried a new lesson. 

 

“Try one step right and one step left, then you take my hands and we turn in a circle,” she counted for him, and then shouted, “No, your right, not mine!” 

 

He growled and pulled her tight up against his body. He put his hands around her waist and swayed left and right making her grind against his cock. 

 

“This isn’t dancing,” she gasped, shocked at his actions, “this is coupling with clothes on!” 

 

“No one’s watching,” he reasoned with her. She sighed in compliance and lifted her hands to wrap around his neck. The held each other and danced in the only way he knew how for two more songs. Then she backed up from him. 

 

“That was lovely,” she said, “but I’d like to go inside now. May I dance with some of the other men?” –he snarled at her- “Real dancing, not what we just did. Only if it’s Brothers that you know?”

 

She truly didn’t need to ask permission to do as she liked but he was glad she did so anyway. He nodded his acceptance. 

 

“But not Harper,” he warned. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

“He’s perfect! Such a healthy young lad,” Idla complimented Marie, taking baby Edgar from his mother’s arms. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Marie asked. 

 

“Of course not!” she exclaimed, “Go, take a break. Dance, enjoy yourself.”

 

She pushed at the other woman to make her move. Marie gave her babe one last look and scuttled off to the other side of the room where space had been cleared for dancing. Idla soon saw the new mother’s frizzy locks bobbing through the crowd. She cradled the baby in her arms, talking nonsense to it and making it laugh. Edgar was near two months now and large for his age. His sparkling green eyes had captured all the women of the Isle’s attention. He was cheerful and rarely fussed. Idla noticed Jocelyn a few feet away and waved to her. Jocelyn had filled out in the past few weeks, her babe growing at an alarmingly fast pace now that it was nearly due. 

 

She’d lost sight of Sandor though. No, there he was! Tucked back in a corner on a bench with Maddox by his side. The young man was talking without pausing for breath as usual. Maddox had also seen a name day in the past four months, making him close to a man now at age sixteen. Quintin still lagged behind by a few more moons. Sandor had his head back against the wall with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, most likely to get Maddox to leave him be. It didn’t seem to be working out well for him. 

 

Rocking the baby in her arms she made her way over to the two men. Sandor heard her approach and lifted one eyelid to check and see who was coming near him. Maddox still chattered on. 

 

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Sandor growled. 

 

“No,” Maddox quickly told him, turning his attention to Idla. “Is that baby Edgar? Can I hold him?”

 

“If you can stop bouncing out of your seat, yes. You have to be still and gentle,” she cautioned the boy. 

 

Maddox settled as she instructed so she handed the baby over to him, making sure he held his arms correctly to support the babe. Maddie made faces and blew raspberries at the baby. He lost interest quickly though and thrust Edgar back into Idla’s arms before taking off to the table laden with desserts. 

 

She cooed at the baby again, telling him how handsome he was. Looking to Sandor , she stopped her babbling. He was looking at her oddly. It was close to the way he looked at her when he desired her. But not quite the same. It was a bit softer. 

 

“Do you want to hold him?” she ventured. And before he could argue she began putting the child into his arms. He sat up with a jerk, straightening his spine. He fumbled at first and she guided his hands under the baby, making sure one went near its head. 

 

“There!” she told him. “See, it’s easy.”

 

He kept glancing at the babe and then at her. Back and forth his eyes went. It looked as if he was going to speak but he suddenly stood and thrust the baby back into her arms much like Maddox had done minutes before. Then he took off out the main doors. 

 

Seven hells, she cursed. What was that all about? He was the one always bringing up talk of babies. And now that she had tried to show the same interest he ran? He was absolutely vexing sometimes. Sitting on the bench, she tended to baby Edgar until Marie had a chance to dance and be free for a time. Once the mother came to claim her babe Idla left the room in the direction Sandor had stalked off to. He hadn’t gone far. He was sitting on one of the logs on the side of main house. This side held no revelers; only people passing by. They were, for the most part, alone. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

It had been a decent time so far. He’d enjoyed the early game of horseshoes and even the dancing lesson had been alright. He’d gone looking for some of Alva’s pastries and Maddox had cornered him. Feigning sleep hadn’t worked but he kept his eyes shut all the same. The stubborn brat had to give up sometime. He heard footsteps near, light and with a bit of a drag in the right foot. Idla. He opened his eyes to greet her and was surprised to see her carrying Marie’s babe. It tugged at something inside him to see her holding an infant. 

 

She offered the child first to Maddox and then to him. He’d been so shocked, he hardly knew what had happened until he found her hands moving his own under a tiny body. It was heavier then he thought it would be. And warm. She smiled at him, her hands still holding his under the babe’s petite form. He felt hot and dizzy and sick somewhere in his chest all at the same time. He saw a glimpse into the future. A future where she was presenting him with his own child and not a stranger’s. His heart hammered in his chest. He quickly shoved the child back into her arms and fled. 

 

It was a coward’s move he knew, leaving her. But the image had been so clear. So true in his mind. And the longing for it to be reality and not a dream shook him to his core. He had to get out and find fresh air. There was a log on the side of the building that looked well enough a place as any. He sat and gulped in cool evening air. Soon he had control again. He waited. She would come. She always followed him. 

 

It took some time but she did eventually make her way to him. She sat beside him and was quiet. She wasn’t going to speak first. Fine, he would. There were things that ought to be cleared up between the two of them.

 

“You want children?” he started.

 

She gave him a puzzled look before answering, “One day. Yes. At the right time. With the right man.”

 

“Me?” he challenged. 

 

She smiled shyly and nodded. He grunted. That was good. Her eyes flew open and her smile turned bright.

 

“Are you asking me to-“

 

“No! Gods no!” he yelped. 

 

She’d taken his questioning the wrong way entirely. He only wanted to know if that future was possible, not start at it right away. He saw her bite her lip and turn her face from his. Her eyes filled with tears and her chin puckered. Fuck. He’d spoken before he thought about the outcome. This needed to be fixed. Immediately, or he could watch that future he longed for sail away just as quickly as it had anchored. He dug around in his pocket for his mother’s ring. 

 

“You never told me you’d had a name day,” he tried. 

 

“You never asked,” she sniffed. 

 

There wasn’t any cruelty in her voice. Only truth. He forced the ring into her hands and waited until she looked at him. 

 

“Said it wrong. Didn’t mean not ever. Just not right now,” he pleaded with her to comprehend what he was saying. 

 

Trying the ring on for size she settled it onto her first finger on her left hand. Her hands were so small. He could swallow them up within his own. 

 

“It’s pretty,” she said quietly. Then she kissed him once. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

They had sat awkwardly for near half an hour. She was embarrassed by her sudden, excited outburst at the prospect of marriage and he didn’t know how else to better explain himself. The ring, he felt, was a promise that, one day, he would wed her. He didn’t know when. It felt stifling to be made to pick a time. He didn’t like feeling controlled into doing something. When the time was right, he would know. 

 

Fireflies started to flicker in the fields and he saw her finally smile. He breathed easier. He truly didn’t mean to hurt her. It was hard these days to not cause pain to either her or him self. He’d been so happy to hear her say that she loved him just two days ago. Why was everything becoming so suddenly difficult? It seemed every place he stepped he was either trapped or she was upset. But she was smiling now. He would enjoy it while it lasted. She stood up fast and grabbed his hands. Glancing around, she saw no one and beckoned to him with a finger. 

 

“Come,” she called to him while she raced off into the crop fields. He chased her. He would always come when she told him to. She giggled and ran as fast as she could. He tried to keep up but his bad leg was still unhappy about the treatment it had been given digging graves for an entire day. He saw her dash behind a large haystack. By the time he made it there she had already stripped naked, wearing nothing but his mother’s ring. She kissed him hard, moving her tongue around his mouth.

 

“I don’t want to fight,” she told him, “I want you.”

 

He pushed her back into the straw, opening his breeches and shoving her hand into them. She bit him under his scarred ear, pulling at his half erect manhood and he grunted in satisfaction. She moved quickly to swap places, and pressed him into the haystack. He chuckled at her enthusiasm. He put his hands everywhere while keeping his lips fastened to hers. 

 

When he was ready she pressed on his shoulders to make him sit. His back against the hay, she straddled his hips and sank down onto him. He moaned and sighed. He didn’t want to fight either. He just wanted this. Always. This way was perfect. They could see eye to eye with her on his lap. They could kiss with ease while their bodies moved together. She rocked her hips side to side, back and forth, calling out her own delight while he breathed heavily into her shoulder. He felt her walls flutter and pulled at her hair so he could see her face. She whimpered and found release and he watched every second of it. He thrust up into her and she met each of his strokes. 

 

“Say it,” he barked. He pulled her hair again and she looked him in the eye. 

 

“I love you,” she cried, her bliss still trembling through her. 

 

He jerked as his cock began to throb inside her. His forehead crashed to hers, enough to cause pain, but he held her eyes. 

 

“Love you,” he gasped as he pulsed within her. He closed his eyes and bucked several more times, giving her all he had. When he opened his eyes she was sniffling again and rubbing at her eyes. He grew nervous. He’d never told a woman he loved her before. Had he done it right? Did she not want to hear the words back? She saw his worry.

 

“A good cry,” she soothed, running her hands through his hair. “One day, when you’re ready, I will make you a fine wife.”

 

He believed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have over 50 Kudos. I am a happy, happy writer right now!


	17. Chapter 17

His excuse was legitimate enough. One of the mares had developed a saddle sore on the last supply run and he was searching for a paste that would help ease the animal’s discomfort. He was sure the sick house would provide him with what he sought. And on the off chance that he would see Idla? Well, that would make the visit truly worth it. She wasn’t to be found though. Only Maester Ulchard was in the building. The boys and Idla had gone off in the woods, he was told, in search of more wild garlic and borage. 

 

So he’d grumbled and asked for a suitable remedy for the horse. The Maester found him a small jar that would do the job. He tried to leave but the old man cleared his throat in a loud manner at him. He turned back around to see what the man had to say. 

 

“Idla is very fond of you,” the scholar began, “I know we don’t talk often but I thought someone should speak up on her behalf.”

 

He gave the man his attention, setting the glass jar back onto the wooden work table.

 

“She is very much a daughter to me,” the Maester continued on, “I’ve know her since she was a child. When her father tossed her out I took it upon myself to watch over her. She is a fierce and intelligent woman.”

 

The wise man gave him a look up and down before he spoke again. 

 

“I wouldn’t have picked you for her. Not at first. But I’ve seen the two of you at meal times, or here, chatting in this room. You have proven yourself to her and to me. You each challenge the other. More importantly you make each other smile.” 

 

The room was getting stuffy. He wasn’t used to compliments and the older man’s words made him itch inside. He remained silent. He didn’t know what was expected of him. The Maester’s tone suddenly became serious and commanding. 

 

“I have no wish to quarrel with you but if you do not make an honest women of her soon you and I are going to have more than words. Is that understood?”

 

He growled back but nodded his head. The Healer and he had been skirting around the edges of marriage for weeks and it was beginning to become irritating. Now he had another to pester him as well. This day was not going well. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

The next afternoon, he was crossing the path that led from the stables up into the gardens. He caught site of Alva waving him over from the back door of the kitchens. She had been sitting on a milking stool, slicing the tops off of strawberries but she stood up to greet him. She smiled and pulled his shirt to get him to bring his face level with hers. He thought she would pinch his cheek or something equally humiliating. His jaw dropped though when her look changed to anger and she slapped him hard across his face. It burned worse than the time Idla had struck him. 

 

“The fuck!” he shouted. 

 

She smacked him again!

 

“Language!” she corrected him. “Don’t you speak to me like that, young man! Everyone else may be frightened of your temper but I’m not. You listen to me!” 

 

He rubbed his face with a hand. That had bloody hurt! She narrowed her eyes at him, pushing on with her lecture. 

 

“There’s a ring on the Healer’s hand and no orders for a wedding fest! What’s the matter with you? You aren’t going to do any better than her. You should be on your knees licking that girl’s shoes!”

 

“What do you know about it?” he yelled back. 

 

“I know she says you won’t marry her and it puts tears in her eyes. For shame! You had better make it right and soon. She’s not going to sit around forever and wait on your sorry hide. Stop acting like a boy and be a man!” she hollered at him. 

 

“Stop telling me what to do! All of you!” he bellowed, turning his back on her and marching away. His cheek was still stinging and he felt ashamed. He hadn’t been scolded like that since he was a child. It left him feeling small and pathetic.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

His mood had not improved during the day. Everything seemed to irritate and bother him. By the time Idla sought out his company in the late evening, he was pacing with unspent energy. She was wary of his disposition, sitting on the bed and turning the ring on her finger. The action only brought more attention to the problem and sent him hurtling off into rage. 

 

“Stop that!” he shouted at her. She jumped and stayed still. She had no idea what she had done to cause him so much anger. There was no act she could think of that she was doing to annoy him so but she remained unmoving in an attempt to settle him. 

 

“Did you put them up to it?” he attacked. 

 

“What are you talking about?” she countered. She truly had no idea what he spoke of. He hadn’t been this furious with her in a long time and it scared her. She didn’t know what the problem was this time around and saw no way to soothe him.

 

“Your Maester. The bakestress. You tell them I wouldn’t marry you so they’d have at me?” he snarled. 

 

“No,” she answered honestly. 

 

“Liar!” he snapped back at her. “The bakestress told me herself you said so!”

 

She grew angry as well. Those weren’t her exact words to Alva and she certainly had never asked the woman to bring it to Sandor’s attention. Instead of speaking to her in a civil tone about it, he was hollering at her for something that wasn’t her fault. And he’d accused her of being a liar! She stood and put her hands on her hips.

 

“Don’t you ever call me a liar again! I made you a promise,” she cautioned her tone harsh, “First of all, I told Alva we were waiting to marry. I never said it was your doing alone. That was her own conclusion. Second, I didn’t ask either one of them to talk to you. That isn’t how you and I work. If I wanted to speak I would come to you directly. Don’t blame me for the thoughts and actions of others!”

 

He was fuming. She could see it. He had anger inside him he’d wanted to peg on her and she wouldn’t let him. He had no place to hang it now except for himself. She stayed the course and stood up for herself further. 

 

“Yes, I’m tired of waiting. Is that what you want to hear? I don’t say it because I know it will upset you. I said I would wait and I will but don’t expect me to not tell my friends of my disappointment. That isn’t fair. You can’t keep what I desire from me and then yell at me for not seeming overjoyed about it.”

 

She’d gone entirely too far. His eyes burned into her and for a split second she thought he might strike her. He grabbed her arm forcefully instead and dragged her to the door. She saw what he intended to do and dropped all her weight to the floor. If he was going to throw her out she would fight it. He scooped her up off the ground with ease and carried her, screaming and lashing out, to the bench outside the hut. He sat her down hard and stalked back into the hut, calling out over his shoulder to her.

 

“You want a wedding that bad? See if you can find one out there!” 

 

He slammed the door shut, nearly taking it off the hinges. She sat with her arms crossed. She was going to give him a few minutes to calm himself before she stomped right back in but then she heard the bolt on the door slip into place. Her heart cried out in alarm. He wasn’t just sending her out momentarily in a child like fit; he was barring her from entering at all! 

 

He could hear her kicking the door and cursing at him. He ignored her and stared at the fire. Dog gave him fretful look. 

 

“Shut up,” he told the animal and it took off to a corner to sit. 

 

Her kicking turned to knocks and her tone got sweeter. She implored him to let her in. He turned the chair around so that he didn’t have to see the door in his line of vision. He’d heard enough men and women plead before in his lifetime. Usually for their lives but he could wait this new pleading out as well. He couldn’t stand to look at her. She was right and he didn’t want to admit it. If he admitted it then all the fault was his and he only wanted someone to understand his point of view. Vows weren’t necessary to love someone. Why couldn’t anyone see that? Why was he the cad in this situation?

 

The knocking had stopped. He heard a muffled thud near the bottom of the door. She’d dropped to the ground and placed her head there. She was crying now, begging him to unbolt the door. He had a thirst for wine worse than the night the fucking water had burned. But there was no way to get at a wineskin without opening the door. He took to his bed instead and put all the pillows over his ears, trying to drown out her tears. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

The stars had come out and were shining in the sky. It was a clear night and the moon was full. Idla wept on her knees in the moonlight. He wouldn’t open the door. Anger, pleasant words, begging and weeping weren’t working and now she sobbed in misery. She’d never ever speak of a wedding again in her entire life if he would open the door and take her back. Her heart broke and bled on his doorstep. Eventually, she picked herself up from the dirt. Numbly, she made her way back to her room and fresh tears started at the thought of sleeping alone. 

 

Hattie heard her cries and came to her. The old woman curled into the bed beside her and combed her fingers through her hair. She bawled into the woman’s nightdress and missed her mother terribly. Sleep took her at some point though she didn’t know when. All she remembered was his face before he shut her out of his hut. 

 

She woke the next morning still in her dress. Hattie was gone and her cheeks felt stiff from dried tears and snot. She wiped her face down with a cloth and sat for a few minutes. Her head ached. Her nose was still stuffed. Her eyes felt puffy and she knew she must look a wreck. There was no need to bother with the first meal. She doubted her stomach could handle food. 

 

She made her way to the sick house. The Maester eyed her with concern and asked if she was ill. She told him no, she’d just had a rough night. The old man’s eyes took in her dress from yesterday and her red eyes. 

 

“Did Sandor do this?” he demanded. 

 

She felt her chin wobble and nodded. “It wasn’t all him though,” she wept. “I pushed too far.” 

 

The Maester hugged her and swore he would beat Sandor with a switch. Idla laughed despite her tears at the image. Maddox and Quitin had entered as well and when the Maester gently told them she and Sandor had argued, Maddox came to her defense just as fiercely as the Maester had done, threatening to split Sandor’s lip. Quinin patted her back and told her no one could stay mad at her for long. Sandor would say he was sorry soon. 

 

But he didn’t. She waited for him all afternoon and he didn’t come. Sorrow turned to anger. Was he waiting on her? What did she have to apologize for? In the evening her stomach had stopped its disgruntled gurgling and she asked for a bowl of stew from the kitchens. She took it back to her room, ate, and then filled the rest of her time with reading. For a second night she slept alone. 

 

Another round of weeping quietly into her pillow left her sullen and silent the next day. She tried to keep herself busy in the sick house but her thoughts kept coming back around to Sandor and his words. She didn’t understand. There was something she was missing. Something she couldn’t reach. She sighed and tossed down the pile of herbs she had been sorting. It was time to go have a talk with the Elder Brother. 

 

She found the Brother in the gardens and asked for some of his time. He smiled gently at her, nodding and took her to a bench far away from any ears that might over hear them. She poured her heart out to him. She told him everything. There was no need to hide from this man. He knew nearly all already anyway. Tears fell down her cheeks once more as she told him of her last encounter with Sandor. She spoke of her frustration and confusion. What was she doing wrong? Why was she being punished for loving?

 

The Elder Brother took one of her hands. He looked out to the garden and pointed to a large walnut tree in the middle. 

 

“I have had the opportunity to speak with Sandor many times now,” he told her, “He is strong but he is also a troubled and broken man. Most think he is driven by anger. That is not true at all. Anger is only the fruit that the tree inside him bears. The roots of the tree are made of longing and each branch that springs forth from that longing is fear. The resulting harvest is anger. Do you understand?” 

 

She nodded her head solemnly, her eyes filling with salty water once again. Sandor was angry because he feared. And he feared because he yearned. So he did want to marry her? But he also had a unique hatred towards vows she did not yet understand. The want and the hate were clashing in his mind, leaving him alone with the companion he’d shackled to his side all his life; fury. What was the fear and longing behind his hate? She would need to take care in her consideration over what was to be done. 

 

“I will speak with him tonight. Use this evening to think on what I have said and allow him to do the same. Go to him tomorrow if it feels right,” The Elder Bother instructed her before leaving the bench and going back to his chore. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

He’d been startled that night, when he walked through the door to his hut to find the Elder Brother standing by the fire place. The intrusion wasn’t the man’s usual way of going about things. The metal box of moon tea was in the robed man’s hands but it was quickly set back up on the shelf. There was a sinking feeling in his gut. Idla and he tried to be careful but it was getting more difficult to do so with each passing week. He wanted her in his bed nightly, it didn’t matter if they coupled or not. A few times they had been caught brushing hands in greeting or kissing. And now she’d been gone from his bed and his life for two days. He suspected this visit from the Elder Brother had something to do with all of it. 

 

“How are the horses?” the Brother asked of him.

 

“Fine, Stranger seems to like his new task.”

 

The Elder Brother let out a chuckle, “Most men find such activities agreeable. I would think a horse is no different.” 

 

They took their normal seats, the Elder Brother on the chair by the fire and himself on the bed. This time the Brother took no pause before getting right to the point. 

 

“The Healer and you spend a great deal of time together,” the man observed. 

 

He grunted back at the man. There was more to it than just that. He knew it. 

 

“Maester Ulchard tells me he’s going through the ingredients to make moon tea at an alarming rate,” the Brother continued. “I can’t think of two other people more headstrong on the Isle that would be quite so” –he paused trying to find the right word- “prolific.”

 

“And?” he challenged the man. “What of it?”

 

“You might learn to slow down a bit,” the man chided him. “Or better yet, marry the girl and stop treating her like an animal.” 

 

He stood up at that, suddenly angry. The pious little shit could call him names all day but he wouldn’t speak about Idla like that. The Brother rose too and held his hands palm up in front of his body. 

 

“Calm down,” the devoted man shouted, “I wasn’t calling her an animal. I said you’re behavior is that of one. Animals rut without a care. Are you a man or beast? Did you bury the Hound or no?”

 

He gave the man a heated look but sat back down. He supposed that the Elder Brother did have a point. 

 

“This is, above all else, a place of God,” the Brother continued. “You are sinning in the eyes of our faith. You may not agree with me but you have chosen to live here and you are no longer following our path. I do not wish to send you from this place. You are important and valued here. But I can not turn a blind eye to this behavior forever. Do you intend to marry the girl?” 

 

“Aye,” he affirmed. He knew Idla was upset with him, but if she would have him back he still intended to wed her one day. The Brother nodded his head. 

 

“That is good to hear. When?” the robed man queried.

 

“I don’t bloody well know!” he roared back. Why was everyone harassing him about this? Couldn’t they all just leave him be until he decided it was right?

 

“You’re angry,” the Brother stated. “Anger is a mask for fear. What is it that you fear?” 

 

He remained silent. He wasn’t afraid. Was he?

 

“What difference does it make if it is today or tomorrow or a year from now?” he was asked, “Do you love her?”

 

“Think so,” he said quietly, looking to the ground. 

 

“Think or know?” the religious man threw back at him, “There is a difference. Have you loved before?”

 

Now the conversation had taken a turn he truly didn’t wish it to go in. Images of his sister, mother and the Little Bird came to mind. 

 

“My sister,” he finally mumbled,”and” –he drew a deep breath- “there was a girl once.”

 

“Did she return your affections?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Do you feel now what you felt then?”

 

“No. More.” –he thumped a fist to his chest while still gazing at the wooden boards of the floor- “Here.”

 

“And what is the fear that keeps you from binding yourself to this ‘more’,” the Brother pushed him while using his own words. 

 

His throat had gone tight. If he bound himself to Idla then that meant, for certain, one day they would part. As he had with any woman he had loved. He never wanted that. 

 

“Don’t want to lose her,” he choked, “but I will. She’ll leave. She’ll die. Or I will. Won’t be like it is now.”

 

The Elder Brother let him sit for a moment to compose him self before moving on. 

 

“I believe,” the man started, “that you love far more deeply than you are aware of. Love, in its purest form, is a sacrifice. It is not all happiness. There is sorrow and grief at the end of the journey together and yet you choose to take it all the same. Is she worth walking the path?”

 

There was a long pause before he answered. 

 

“Aye.” he nodded. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………… 

 

For a third night he slept alone. She avoided him the rest of the following day as well. He couldn’t blame her. He sulked through the day but knew it was his own doing. He’d treated her horribly. He saw that now, given time and his talk with the Elder Brother. The right thing to do would be to seek her out, beg her forgiveness and wed her all in the same day. Fear and shame kept him from doing so. If she wanted to see him, if she was ready for him to grovel at her feet, she would find him. She didn’t and so he stayed away. 

 

After stalling the horses for the night, he trudged back the path to his hut. It was lonely there without her. He wasn’t looking forward to another night cold and on his own. Surprise took him once more when, opening his door, he found her in the chair by the fire. She had a small pile of cloth in her lap. His shirts, he realized. The two that had been sitting to the side of the room for a week needing sewn. She was mending his fucking shirts by the firelight. The tip of her tongue was trapped between her lips while she wrinkled her eyebrows in concentration. She never had gotten the hang of playing the seamstress. 

 

“The hell you doing?” he asked, his tone gentle. He didn’t want to start things off wrong. 

 

“Mending,” she answered, simply. 

 

“Can see that. What you doing here?” 

 

She sighed and put the shirt down. She worried at her lip and he let her. He would wait until she found her thoughts. 

 

“I don’t want to fight,” she told him, echoing a conversation that had taken place weeks ago. “I don’t ever want to be thrown from your side again.”

 

He had the good sense to look to the floor and apologize. She didn’t offer the comfort of forgiveness though and continued on. 

 

“I don’t want to force you into anything. I’m sorry others are making you feel that way. I don’t want that feeling to be the start of our marriage. We will make this work.”

 

“How’s that?” he asked sincerely. He didn’t see a way out of this corner. 

 

She looked at the pile in her lap. “We’ll move from here. Somewhere far where we’re not known. I’ve got a bit of coin saved up from selling treatments at the trading towns. We’ll tell everyone we’re married. No one will know the truth.”

 

She hesitated and bunched the fabric in her lap into her fingers. 

 

“But there will be no children. I won’t have it. I will live with you and love you but I’m not going to birth any children who can’t be given a proper name.” 

 

She stuck her chin out a bit in defiance. He didn’t feel any better at all. He had gotten what he wanted hadn’t he? Then why did he still feel empty? The family he’d never had, that he wanted with her, wasn’t a part of her plan and it tore him apart. 

 

“Why no children? If we tell everyone we’re wed then what does it matter? They won’t know,” he tried to reason with her. 

 

“I would know,” she told him in a hushed voice. She gave him a sad look and went back to mending. 

 

She looked like a little girl learning how to sew. He remembered his sister looking like that long ago. They had strapped him to the bed the first week his face had been healing. Otherwise he would tear at it asleep or awake. While he lay in agony, his sister had sat by his bed many hours out of every day. The shared Septa had given her scraps of cloth, a dull needle and some buttons to practice with. If she wasn’t sewing, she was singing. And if she wasn’t singing she was playing with her dolls on the edge of his bed. She made up stories about them and tried to distract him with her childish tales. Most were about Knights, Kings and Princesses. Sometimes a King would marry a Queen and then that would turn into her chirping on about her own wedding. At age five she was certain she would marry a handsome Lord and her cloak would be the richest scarlet red. 

 

If his sister had been thinking of that day since she was little more than a toddling babe, how long had Idla been hoping for the same? He felt a coldness settle in his stomach. He was the worst shit ever just as the wolf girl had told him. He’d ripped her dreams apart and worse yet, she had come back to him, settling for his wishes and ignoring her own completely. She was willing to leave the only family she knew, cast aside thoughts of motherhood and live a lie. And for what? So he could save a bit of his pride and not say a few straightforward words? They were words he already felt and knew to be true. Was it worth crushing her spirit to not have to say them out loud? The Elder Brother’s talk of love and sacrifice came back to him. She was giving him all and he wasn’t even trying. He was such a fucking fool. 

 

And the way her eyes looked right now. It was a resigned sadness. A burden she was going to bear all her life for him. He’d never be able to remove it completely from her gaze if he agreed to this false marriage. He knew enough about the type of sadness that had years to sit inside a person. Eventually it turned to anger, resentment and hate. One day, she would feel that way about him. That funny, loving look she gave him would snuff itself out over the years. No amount of saved pride was worth seeing that look slowly die in her eyes. It was decided. He would wed her. He would live his life at her side and when they parted he would thank all the Seven one by one for the time he’d been given with her. 

 

Storming over to the fireplace, he took the tin of moon tea and opened it, swiftly tossing its contents into the fire. It hissed and the flames around the herbs burned bright green. She sprang form the chair too late and reached for his hand. 

 

“Damn it!” she cursed, “It takes half an afternoon to make that! Why did you do that?” 

 

“No more tea,” he growled. 

 

“Sandor, I don’t want to have this argument again. I’m tired of it,” she whined. Her eyes did look weary. 

 

“You’d end up hating me.” –she looked like she would protest and he cut her off- “You would, Idla. Not right away. Later on. When your old, with no babes and only a mangy cur to keep you company. You’ll hate me then. You’ll regret. Don’t want to be your regret.” 

 

Her lips trembled but she didn’t argue with him. He knew more about her heart then she did sometimes. 

 

“No more tea,” he said with emphasis, hoping she would understand. 

 

She stared at him. Her eyes were troubled and unsure. She knew very well what stopping the moon tea meant. And she also knew he’d never force her to his bed. 

 

“Is this….are you….” she trailed off. She couldn’t even ask this time around. Her pride was on the line as well and she wasn’t going to make an idiot of herself all over again. She didn’t trust him and he couldn’t find fault in it. He’d fought them all so hard over talk of weddings that his abrupt change was difficult for her to believe. 

 

“Aye,” he rumbled taking one of her hands and lacing his fingers through her own. 

 

“Why?” she snapped. Her eyes still held distrust in them but they had softened a bit. 

 

“It’s important to you. Means it’s important to me,” he explained. “Haven’t been acting much like a man. I want to claim you. Want to keep you. Will you let me?” 

 

His heart was skipping rapidly. So fast he couldn’t make out the beats anymore and thought that perhaps it had reached a point where it had given up. He wanted to believe she would have him but there would always be a part of him that told him he was unworthy. 

 

“You mean it?” she whispered, “Truly?” 

 

He filled the space between them and pressed his lips to hers in answer. 

 

“Say ‘yes’,” he told her. 

 

“Yes,” she answered with no hesitation at all. He pushed at her mouth harder, tasting what was his. What would always be his. She pulled back to look at him and he saw tears on her cheeks. He rubbed a few away with his thumb.

 

“A good cry?” he ventured. 

 

“A very good one,” she agreed. 

 

He hugged her to his chest and held her. This was a moment he had only ever dared to imagine coming true during forlorn nights spent in his cups, until she had come along. Marriage! Him! But he’d say a thousand words over and over again if it meant he could have her for his own. Soon, they would love without hiding. 

 

“You burnt my tea,” she giggled into his clothing. He had missed her laughter. “That was the worst proposal ever,” she sighed, “next time I expect doves and minstrels.” 

 

“Shut up about it,” he grumbled, smiling into her hair. He’d done the best he could. She took his face in her hands and pulled him down for a kiss. Her smile was gorgeous and her eyes sparkled. She understood and was only giving him a hard time. Now he felt well. The frigid pit in his stomach warmed and boiled with pleasure. 

 

“When?” she asked him excitedly. 

 

“Now?” he offered, “Tomorrow? Grab the Maester or the Elder Brother and let’s be done with it.” 

 

But he’d said something wrong as he watched her eyebrows pinch together again. 

 

“I can’t plan a proper wedding in a day!” she exclaimed. 

 

“Ah, the little Princess wants a royal wedding,” he tried to tease but it backfired on him. She had tears in her eyes and he knew they weren’t happy ones. Bugger him! Why couldn’t he learn to shut his mouth?

 

“It doesn’t have to be all that,” she said timidly. “I only thought that . . . it would be nice to have a little something. And maybe, if I wrote him, my father would come.”

 

He tilted her chin up. Her request wasn’t unreasonable. She deserved to have her father there if she wanted it. 

 

“How much time you need?”

 

“A fortnight? Maybe three weeks.” 

 

He grunted. That wasn’t so bad. He’d have a wife in less than a month. And the timing would work out so he could start at putting a babe in her belly this very night. No one would ever be the wiser if she gave birth within their first year together. That last thought sounded enormously appealing to him at the moment. He was going to make his wife-to-be very happy this night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the reviews, hits, kudos, subscriptions and bookamarks! It makes my day to see that others are enjoying this story!
> 
>  
> 
> Now the bit of bad news. Sorry guys but I have all day plans from now until the 7th. Expect a delay in posting. An important event is coming in the next chapter or two and I don’t want to write that one out without giving it my undivided attention. Be patient. It will be worth it. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you haven’t done so already you may want to check out a one shot I wrote entitled Staring At the Bottom of a Glass. All of Sandor’s thoughts on Sansa didn’t belong in this chapter. I don’t see him as being articulate enough to describe it all. And even if he could, he wouldn’t give the Elder Brother every last little detail. They are his memories, he’s possessive and they still confuse him. He doesn’t want to share. If you’d like a glimpse in to what he’s feeling check it out. It is good information to have while reading this story.


	18. Chapter 18

When she sat herself down in his hut that night, her goal had not been to bring forth a marriage proposal from him. The true intent of her actions was just as she had told him. She wanted to be with him. No matter what that entailed. She still didn’t comprehend his aversion to vows and perhaps she never would. But she loved him and it wasn’t right for him to do everything she pleased without taking his own wants into account as well. Her plan wasn’t without flaws but it had seemed the only viable solution. Giving up on the idea of children had been a struggle. She was glad, in the end, that he had seen how important marriage was to her. She had weeks to convince him that it would be beneficial to him as well. Love flowed both ways and she did not yet think he understood the full nature of it. 

 

He was trying his best though now it seemed. His kisses were light on her face. He left not an inch of skin untouched as his lips traced over brow and cheeks, nose and chin. He had missed her, she smirked to herself. She had missed him as well. If he would cease his rain of kisses she would try to show him. She lifted her hands to capture his face and he gently pushed them back down to her hips. He started in on her neck, fingers first trailing over her from ear to collar bone before his mouth followed. He was going to kill her if this was how he was going to spend all night! 

 

But something was different she noted. He’d become less frantic with her ever since she’d told him of her love. And that was nice. He would switch between bouts of being desperately fast and achingly slow depending on his mood. There had been the light of desire in his eyes earlier but now it was muted and looked more like astonishment. This time he wasn’t letting her return his favors. The way he was touching her was in reverence. Much like the night she had first kissed his scars. It was shocking. She knew he could be gentle when he wished, but this was a step further. It was tender. He’d make her weep all over again before the night was done. 

 

He stepped back one pace to remove his shirt and then started at the ties on her dress. And still he didn’t say a word; only looked at his fingers as he picked apart the knots separating him from her. Once he finished with his task, he pulled at her sleeves, helping her to slip her arms from them. Next, he slid the clothing down her hips and to the floor. He held her hands while she stepped out of the crumpled puddle of wool. It was odd and not like him. This new behavior was slightly unsettling. If it were any other man she wouldn’t question it. But he wasn’t any other man. He was Sandor. He was hers and she knew there was something going on in his head. His hands started at the soft skin above her breasts and she snatched them quickly before he could react. 

 

“Is something wrong?” she asked him. His hands stilled and he shook his head. She knew he wasn’t good with words. It felt like something was off though. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” she tried again. He plucked at the frayed ends of the ribbons on her small clothes. His eyes were looking to the floor once more. 

 

“If you’re going to be my wife,” he started, "that means I’ll be your husband.”

 

She had to stamp down every instinct inside of her that wanted to giggle at the statement. Of course he’d be her husband! What did he think marriage vows were for? But something in his stance and the way he wouldn’t look at her told her it wasn’t a laughing matter to him. He was serious. Had the thought never occurred to him before?

 

“That’s right,” she said hesitantly, “that is generally how weddings work.” There. That was all the safest statement she could manage. He kept pulling on the loose threads he could find, making the fraying worse. She was reminded of the time he’d looked at her like he was a still a boy. When he spoke it was a quiet rasp.

 

“Always thought about having a wife. Never thought I’d be a husband. Never thought anyone would want me to be one.” 

 

He shrugged and she had been right. He had put tears in her eyes for a second time that evening. She sniffed and blinked them back. He could picture loving someone enough to want to claim them but not the other way around. Her heart crumbled at the thought. He had given her back her hopes and dreams earlier. It was time for her to give him some of his in return. The hands at her laces stopped moving so she took advantage of the pause to pull them up to her mouth. 

 

“You will make a good husband,” she told him, kissing his knuckles. “I have faith in you.” 

 

His hands squeezed at her fingers and she placed them back at her chest so that he could do as he pleased. But his hands moved to her arms and his forehead fell above her breasts instead. She combed his hair with her fingers, letting him take his time. She didn’t feel tears nor did he shake or tremble. He simply held her. She was patient. Whatever it was he needed he would have it from her. Words meant something to him but actions would always speak louder. If she placed her trust in him, and allowed him to fulfill his needs within her, he would start to believe her words. 

 

She felt him push at her with his hips, back to the bed. He was hard and apparently ready to seek out her heat. Once her legs hit the bed he went back to the laces on her small clothes. She knew better than to try and help this time. He wanted to do it all on his own. He’d figured it out somewhere in the evening that he wasn’t trying to gain her full acceptance any longer. He owned her completely. He had all and now he was faced with what to do with it. He was testing to see how much she would allow, she realized. He needed to understand he could have everything. Sometimes he liked it best when she was quiet so that he could work through his own problems. She could do that now. 

 

Her small clothes fell to the floor along with his breeches. She was on her back with him settled between her legs within seconds. And still he never spoke a word. He looked her dead in the eye when he entered her, using his own hand to guide himself. She wasn’t quite ready but she didn’t protest. Once he moved it would be alright. But he hardly moved at all. Just a single, long, unhurried stroke out and back in. He stopped, breathed, waited a minute and did it all over again. He’d shut his eyes though his head still rested against hers. He reached around her body, one arm under her neck and the other around her ribs. She had her arms free, at least, so she could lightly scratch at his back while he continued to slowly move inside her. There wasn’t much else that could be done to make the two of them any closer. And that’s how he stayed. Long minutes dragged on. He kept torturing her. One slow, agonizing stroke and then nothing. She felt a brief shudder of pleasure each time he entered her but it would be better if he would thrust more. Bite her. Do something. She tried grinding her hips and he growled. The hand at her neck pinched sharply. She knew he didn’t want her to move but she tried again anyway. 

 

“Don’t,” he gasped. “Please, I’ll spill.” She stopped immediately. He only ever begged her in bed and she would never deny him that which he pleaded for. 

 

“There’s no stopping that, love,” she teased. “Sooner or later . . .”

 

He shook his head on top of hers. “Don’t want it to stop. Not ever.” 

 

She smiled and graced his temple with her lips. She understood now. This coupling was about him far more than it was about her. She couldn’t imagine he’d ever had a time in his life when he could have had a woman with no set limitations and she had promised him the rest of her life. He could go on and on, stretching the moment out and making it last. He moaned when he thrust into her, gripping at her hair and she grinned. Well, he could try and make it last. She knew his body’s signs. 

 

It amazed her how much power she could hold over him. Here, alone in this room, she became the stronger. He wanted it to continue as long as he could hold out and she would gladly let him. He kept at his deliberately tempered pace and continued on with crying out every time he entered her. She shut her eyes as well to enjoy the sensations of him loving her. He was her chosen one. Her husband-to-be. The future father of her children. And she would cherish him always. He had started to tremble, fighting the urge to finish. She kneaded at his back and shushed in his ear. And then a deliciously wicked thought occurred to her. 

 

“If you spill now,” she whispered, “I promise you a boy first.” 

 

“Fuck!” was his only response as he lost all control and she relished in the feel of his hips snapping forcefully up into her. 

 

“Sooner or later,” she laughed. “I told you.”

 

“Wasn’t fair,” he groaned from somewhere in the nest of hair at her shoulder. 

 

“We have all night,” she reminded him, “And the next. And soon it will be the days as well. Too many of them to count.” 

 

He grunted but it was drawn out and low, almost a hum. Then he lowered himself, pulling from her body but still laying between her parted thighs with his head on her stomach. It was his scars he’d placed to her skin and she sent a silent thanks to the Gods for allowing her the chance at earning his trust. 

 

“No tea,” he warned her. 

 

“I don’t have any more. You burned it all,” she assured him. “If there’s a babe in me it’s staying there.” 

 

He tightened his hold around her. He was in that drowsy span of time after he had spent himself well and she decided to press her luck. 

 

“You don’t have to say any vows. You know that right?” she asked. His head came up so that he could look at her, chin on her belly. 

“It would be nice if you did,” she continued, “but I don’t think it’s technically required. I want to say them so I will. You can say them or not. Or even say what you wish. It can be what we want. The important thing is to try to say something and have someone bear witness to it.” 

 

She hoped he understood. It wasn’t so much the words themselves. It was the promise behind them. He went back to settling his cheek against her. 

 

“Why all the hate for vows?” she tried. She really was pushing now but it seemed as good a time as any to ask. He sighed and seemed to try and bury his face father down into her skin.

 

“Never knew any man who took vows and kept to them,” he told her. “Doesn’t seem there’s much point to it if all it turns into is lies. Don’t want to be like those men.” 

 

The Elder Brother had been correct. There was a fear and a longing behind most of what he did. Someplace hidden, he wanted to be a man of truth and vows didn’t equate with that in his mind. If he took any type of oath he feared he’d end up a liar or worse. 

 

“You won’t be like them,” she soothed, running her fingers through his curls once more, “You won’t break your promises to me. I told you, I have faith in you. You’re an honest man. It’s what I like best about you. I’d rather have a course man of honor any day over a silver tongued lair.” 

 

“Honor,” he huffed. “Not a Knight.” 

 

“No, you’re not,” she agreed, “you’re something better.” 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

The following day was a hectic catastrophe of beautiful proportions. One she had never known before. She told Maseter Ulchard first as he had been more father to her than her own for nearly a year. The old man hugged her with water in his eyes when she asked if he would walk with her if her true father refused. Maddie and Quintin were also equally excited that her marriage meant Sandor would be a more permanent fixture in their lives. The young boys looked up to him which, in the end, was alright. There were far worse things in the world they could learn then some bad language. The good he had to teach them far outweighed a few curse words. Every time she saw him sparring with Maddie or grumbling through a game of draughts with Quintin her heart soared, thinking of a day when he would do the same with his own sons. 

 

She had told Sandor it was his duty to tell Alva. He had no parents to share his news with and Idla knew the bakestress would fuss over him as much as any mother. He deserved to have a surrogate parent dote on him over his wedding whether he thought so or not. It would do him good to see that others, besides her self, became joyful because of his own happiness. 

 

Her next task was a raven to her father. She tried not to beg, keeping her words short and plain. She didn’t know if he would come. Part of her wished for it and a different part of her puzzled over why she did not. Her father had left her after all. Shouldn’t he be the one sending a raven to open the line of communication back up? But, once again, she heard her Septa’s reprimanding tone telling her the right thing to do was to inform her father of his only daughter’s marriage. 

 

The women went into a frenzy at her news. The clucked, cackled and giggled for hours helping her plan her dress. She hadn’t thought about a new one before but it seemed a thrilling idea once it had been brought to her attention. They all had cloth stashed away and she finally came to a decision. They didn’t have much time, but with all of their hands available to sew they would stitch a pale, sage green dress with gold trimmings. Hattie pulled her aside and said she would help her with some lace to go underneath. She didn’t understand the need for that. Her small clothes were perfectly fine and functional but the old woman grinned at her, telling her she’d be thankful for it later. 

 

She was glad for the busy schedule. It kept her distracted from the ache between her legs. After he’d found his comfort in her arms the previous night, he had made good on seeing to her satisfaction as well. Whether it was from his tongue, hands or cock, he made sure she found her peak over and over again until she’d pleaded with him to be allowed to sleep. 

 

A blurry gust of days followed as she met with the women for several hours every evening to work on her dress. Alva wanted her attention as well, asking about ceremony details and what foods they would like served at the wedding feast. She had told the older woman that the ceremony itself would be private. Most likely in the sick house or the Elder Brothers chambers. She knew Sandor wouldn’t want to be put on display during those moments and she saw no issue with it. She didn’t need a crowd either. One or two witnesses were enough to forge their bond. Afterwards though, she wanted everyone to celebrate with them. They could combine the evening meal with a chance for all to congratulate them. The Elder Brother gave his consent to music and dancing as well. She was giddy with premarital bliss. 

 

And in the midst of all that chaos, Jocelyn’s baby chose to make her debut. The baby girl was a scale model of her mother; tiny, fragile looking, with an abundance of hair so blonde it glowed white. Idla was not entirely surprised when Quintin showed up a day after the babe’s birth with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands. Lately, the young man had taken to spending more time with Jocelyn. He also spent many of his free hours in the kitchens with Lyman rather than the sick house. He timidly asked if he could see the new mother and Idla led him back to the woman’s room without question. She let them have some privacy and heard their laughter within moments. It reminded her of the early days between her and Sandor. The life of a Maester didn’t seem to be Quintin’s true calling. The young scholar wasn’t adept at separating himself from the blood and pain he witnessed. He’d make a much better herbalist or kitchen master. And either one of those professions would allow him to continue seeking Jocelyn’s favor. 

 

The women of the Isle had double the amount of feminine pastimes to keep them entertained. Between the new babe, her regular chores and her upcoming marriage, she saw little of Sandor during the day. Most nights she collapsed in her own room, too tired to make the trip down to his hut. He complained about it. Loudly. She kissed him sweetly, calming him with promises that soon it would be his turn to exhaust her day and night. 

 

There was only a week left before their marriage. She had still not heard from her father and it worried her. Would he ignore her completely? The thought made her moody and she spent more time alone wondering why he still hated her so. It hadn’t been her fault she was born a girl. And it certainly wasn’t her doing that had caused the family to fall. When she came to Sandor’s bed, she became less active and he noticed. He tried his best to give her sweet words as balm but it couldn’t fill up the hole in her heart left by her father’s missing voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my lord! Did you miss this story as much as I did?
> 
> The make up sex went in an entirely different direction than what I thought it would. But I like it. He needed that. Next up. . . wedding bells! :) I'm excited!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on tumblr! Come hang out with me.  
> 
>  
> 
> http://naturesinmyeye.tumblr.com/

Opening the door to his hut, he heard her first. She was crying. Noisy, blubbering sobs and his heart picked up its pace with worry. Quiet weeping was her usual method of shedding tears. This type of emotional wreckage wasn’t her and it scared him. There was a wooden crate on his bed, with the lid torn off. She was clutching what looked like little more than a horse blanket in one hand and a crumpled piece of paper in the other. Her face was blotchy and tear streaked. She’d been at it for a while. He felt a stab of guilt at finding her beautiful even in her despair. 

 

“H-he won’t come,” she stammered through her cries. 

 

Gods, she’d started to hiccup she was so upset. He hadn’t seen her this troubled since the night he’d been a complete arse to her, mocking her inability to share in his pain. But that evening he had seen angry tears pour forth from her. This time it was sorrow. He stood just as incompetent as he had the last time she had sobbed in his presence. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help her. Not at all. He wished to end her grief instantly but he didn’t know how. He’d learned gentleness and tenderness, but comfort still eluded him. So he tried his best to copy her actions when she attempted to alleviate his torment. He bent at the knee in front of her, putting her face in his hands. 

 

“Who’s not coming, love?” he questioned, though he already suspected the answer. 

 

“My father!” she wailed. She held the wrinkled letter out to him and he took it in one hand, shaking it out and reading a few brief lines. The man was a cad, he concluded. The note was short and almost cold. Her father apologized but said he would be unable to attend the ceremony, hiding behind the excuse of being too busy with affairs in Scuttleton. It went on to give her a slight compliment. Idla was intelligent, he father stated, and was sure she had made a suitable choice. It pained him to see her so distressed but she was probably better off not having such a man at her wedding. He tossed the note aside. 

 

“He’s a coward who doesn’t deserve you as a daughter,” he stated, kissing her forehead. 

 

Her eyes looked at him like he was the bringer of all truth. She believed him, he realized. Hells, she trusted him. Her trust seemed almost more valuable than her love. Her eyes filled with more water though as she held up the large blanket in her hand. Only it wasn’t a blanket at all. The side facing him was of plain, brown wool but the other side was soft as goose down. It was dove tail gray with silver threads shimmering throughout it. 

 

“He sent my mother’s cloak,” she breathed, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. He regretted his earlier assumptions of the man. Her father might be gutless, but it was born from rage and sorrow. He could understand the man’s actions though it didn’t make them right. Plucking the cloak gently from her hands, he pulled her to his chest and let her cry out the rest of her anguish. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

The day before their wedding, Idla drug him outside his hut and sat him on a low stool so she could be level with his face. She had insisted that she be allowed to cut his hair. He had to admit it had gotten shaggy and out of control, even by his own standards. He hadn’t bothered to deal with it since he’d been at King’s Landing. 

 

“Who cuts it?” she said, tsking and shaking her head while she combed through it with her fingers. 

 

“I do,” he asserted. She only hummed in reply to that. “You know what your doing?”

 

“I had six brothers. They were always after me to make them up pretty for their ladies. I’ll make you pretty too” she smiled. 

 

“That’s a fight you’ll lose,” he snorted. He’d said something wrong. Her eyes looked troubled. She started brushing through his hair with her comb and he closed his eyes to revel in the feel of it. She parted it correctly, taking up the small shears she had brought along to begin cutting. 

 

“Keep it long,” he warned. 

 

“I know,” she assured. She fussed and sighed for several minutes while she worked. Finally, she halted her progress, hands on her hips. 

 

“What?” he barked. She acted like she was upset with him. 

 

“Don’t talk like that around me,” she scolded. 

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you're ugly.”

 

“Idla, I am,” he told her. He didn’t want to argue but it was the truth. He’d never be anything near handsome. It was pointless and irritating to try and pretend otherwise. 

 

“Not to me. Don’t talk like that around me. You don’t need all this” – she ruffled his hair- “For my sake. You could shave yourself bald and I’d still love you.” 

 

“’Cos you’re blind and insane, woman,” he tried to tease. It wasn’t working. 

 

“Don’t you see? You’re beautiful to me and every time you say something like that, your stomping all over what I feel! Like it’s not important to you.” She really was disturbed. 

 

“Didn’t mean to,” he sighed, “But it is a sorry face your wedding yourself to.”

 

“It’s not. And even if it was, you think your face is the reason I’m marrying you?”

 

“Suppose not,” he reasoned. She went back to her task. The stormy look had left her eyes and he was glad for it. His curiosity had been triggered though.

 

“What’s the reason then?”

 

She leaned over him to put her mouth near his ear “Your enormous cock,” she grinned, winking at him.

 

He’d never laughed so hard in all his life. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Anxiety clawed at her belly. She paced the floor of the great room in the women’s hut, twisting her fingers into contorted shapes while she walked. The older women giggled and smiled, suggesting she have a glass of wine. The younger ones told her to sit. She did neither, only continued to wear a path in the floor. He had said he would come for her near evening, giving them time to exchange vows before the final meal of the day. 

 

She was ready for him. She had no idea why she was so high strung. Her heart knew what it wanted. But she was all made up in a gorgeous yet strange dress. Marie had rubbed her face down with rose water and tinted her lips with wine stained beeswax. The lace Hattie had helped her stitch didn’t seem to stay on her body where it was supposed to. It itched under her dress. Her hair was a task that had taken the most time. They’d all helped her pile several thick braids into a knot at the nape of her neck. Everyone took turns at weaving smaller, delicate braids, ribbons and tiny white flower buds through out the knot.

 

It all left her feeling like she was something more and less than herself at the same time. And what would Sandor think? Would he like her this way? Would he give her any words or remain silent? That’s what truly worried her. She knew he’d go through with the marriage but would he take joy in it or sulk like a child made to do a chore? 

 

There was a startling crack at the door and her heart skipped several beats. That was his knock. She would leave the house as her and come back to his hut as them. Patting at her hair she opened the door to greet him. He’d left his robes somewhere, clad in clothes she’d made for him with her own hands. He was clean and had combed his hair. She hadn’t expected more from him. He was perfect just as he was. He looked serious but his eyes blinked several times, taking in the site of her. She couldn’t hold her elation in any longer, jumping up to circle his neck with her arms. He held her back, his arms clasping her around her waist. She could feel him grinning against her cheek. 

 

“Come on,” he bid her, setting her back down. “Got a wedding to get to.”

 

The Elder Brother and Maester Ulchard sat on mares a short distance away. Stranger was there as well. Sandor helped her to mount the stallion side saddle first, and then clambered up behind her. She appreciated the care he took to see to her comfort by letting her ride to the ceremony. Confusion took her though as they passed both the main building and the sick house. She started to wiggle in her seat, trying to get a good look at him but he told her to be still and wait. It didn’t take long for her to understand his intention. She’d traveled the path he led Stranger on many times with him before. He was taking her to the clearing near the water where she had first kissed him. 

 

Once they arrived, the men hobbled the horses and Sandor led the Elder Brother to an aged tree. Warmth over took her at his sentiment. They’d had each other quite a few times under that particular growth of branches. His feelings ran as bottomless as hers. What he wasn’t good at saying he’d mastered through deed and action. 

 

Master Ulchard offered his arm to her. The scholar’s smile was warm and paternal. Tears gathered in her eyes as she took his arm and kissed him lightly on the cheek. And then there was nothing left to do but take the last steps to her man, completing a journey that had started months ago on a hillside. 

 

Once she reached Sandor, Maester Ulchard gave her a small peck in return and put her hand into Sandor’s. She couldn’t fathom how he seemed so calm. Her teeth nearly rattled inside her skull with excitement and nerves. But as the Elder Brother spoke the first words of promise and bid Sandor to cloak her, she felt his fingers tremble on her shoulders. He was just as overcome as she in his own way. 

 

“In sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity,” the Elder Brother began. “Look upon one another and say the words.”

 

She faced Sandor and looked up into his face. She put all the love she’d ever felt for him into her words. 

 

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,” she started. He didn’t say them with her and that was alright. She had hoped but hadn’t presumed. “I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” 

 

It didn’t seem like enough to her. There was so much more to say. And she wanted to reassure him that she didn’t mind that he had remained silent. She pulled at his shirt until he bent his head down so she could speak to him in his ear. 

 

“It’s alright,” she breathed, “You’re everything to me. I’m going to make you proud.” 

 

She tried to pull back but one of his large hands came up to cradle the back of her head. His lips pressed close to her ear in return. She stood still, shivering as she heard him speak in a low rumble.

 

“Woman. Lover. Helper. Teacher. Healer. Wife. One day Mother too. You’re mine until I die.” 

 

The world seemed to stop and her heart slowed as she listened to him. She couldn’t stop the tears that left her eyes. He’d made her his Seven. There wasn’t anything more breathtaking he could have offered her. His hand moved from her head to cup her chin, tilting it up for their first kiss as husband and wife. It was soft and chaste. The time for passion was later. This moment was pure. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

They leaned on each other the entire way to his hut after the evening meal, each one of them dizzy and drunk on both love and wine. Not so far gone as to be senseless, only giddy and light headed. He’d rarely seen this agreeable side of alcohol. Not since he was a lad and first introduced to wine. In the past, he’d never learned how to stop to enjoy the warm, pleasurable stage. He’d always marched right through into stumbling brutality where nothing ever became as numb as he wanted it to. And then there were the terrible nights when he could still feel something, no matter how much he drank, until he eventually lost consciousness. He’d wake in the morning hoping he’d finally slain them, but the feelings continued to beat inside him. The only solution had been more wine. Surely, one day, he had thought, it would work. 

 

Nothing like that was happening now. He was once again grateful for the Healer’s presence in his life. She’d helped mend many of the wounds that had been lingering inside of him. He hadn’t been aware there were so many until she’d started to patch them up one kiss, word, or loving look at a time. She was giggling now, her eyes shining with life and happiness. It took his breath away every time she looked at him like that. He’d made someone happy. Him! It was almost beyond comprehension. Wild, harsh, bull like Sandor Clegane with a tongue like a cat o’ nine tails, made her smile. Maybe he wasn’t the lost cause or the filthy mutt the world had taught him was. She’d found him worthy enough to bind herself to him. He trusted her judgment. If she said he was worthwhile, then one day he would prove to himself he deserved her admiration. 

 

She swayed in his arms but he held her steady. They hadn’t waited until marriage to couple, however, this time together was still precious and sacred. She was no longer simply his lover. She was now his wife, his love, his reason. The desire he felt earlier in the evening turned into a need that was savage and possessive. She was his. She’d said the words. He could have all he wanted of her, in every way, for as long as his heart kept on beating. 

 

His lips found hers in a forceful kiss. Her tongue wasted no time in finding his own. She had a lustful passion to match his own, the Gods only knew why, but it didn’t matter anymore. She’d made her vows, accepted his and promised herself to him. He found he no longer cared about the why of it all. Their lips danced together as their bodies would soon as well. He’d been half swollen since he heard her say that he’d make an able husband. It didn’t take much attention from her now to send him into a state of aching readiness.

 

The ties on her dress were a challenge to his hands. They were so delicate he nearly gave up on them, ready to tear the cloth off of her. But he knew she’d spent days on the fabric, and she’d probably holler at him for damaging it. So he grumbled and struggled through the task with wine heavy fingers until she slapped at his hands to do it herself. She pealed the light green material from her body, revealing a sight that made him gasp and nearly choke on his own tongue. She’d done something amazing to her small clothes. He’d never seen anything like it. Her normal linen one piece had been replaced by two tiny scraps of virginal white lace that had no business being called clothing. The piece at the bottom barely covered her heat and arse. The top bit was wound tight around her breasts causing them to heave up and press together. He swallowed, trying to find something to say. She was exquisite and his mind was failing him. She pouted, confused by his stillness. 

 

“Don’t you like it?” she asked with worry. “Hattie, said you would.” 

 

“Don’t talk about old women now,” he complained, trying to get the wrinkled image of Hattie’s face out of his head. He pressed himself close to her so she could feel his need. 

 

“It’s fucking. . . ,“ he rasped, still grasping for the right word, “ . . .unbelievable. You’re beautiful.” 

 

He reached up into her hair. It was an achievement in and of itself but he liked it best down, untamed, and thick in his hands. Digging his fingers into the knot in the back, he tried to find a place to start but she jumped back out of his reach. 

 

“Oh, no you don’t!” she scolded. “It took hours to do this. You leave it be!”

 

He growled at her. He wasn’t welcome to rip her dress. He wasn’t allowed to muss her hair. Fuck this! He craved her, needed to take her like the oceans took salt from the land. There was dominance in his stride towards her. It was her turn to gasp as he wrenched the cloth holding her breasts in place from her body, his chest slamming into hers. He ground his hips against her, tasting her lips again while she clutched at his shirt. It quickly disappeared, along with his breeches as he advanced on her, forcing her over and down onto the bed. She didn’t resist. She never did. If his head wasn’t so full of wine, and his cock throbbing with want, he would have wept. She loved him! 

 

He ripped the cloth covering her womanhood as well, tossing the shreds that remained aside. Her nipples were peaked with arousal, as he suckled at them. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, kneading his flesh while she spread her legs for him. He knew what she desired but he wanted to hear it. She’d never asked, begged or pleaded for him to enter her before. She always welcomed him but he wanted her voice to speak words of need to him. 

 

“Please,” she tried, writhing under him while he rubbed his cock against her folds. She whimpered and moaned. 

 

“Please what?” he taunted.

 

“I need you!” she cried, “Inside me. Please!” 

 

He didn’t make her wait any longer. She’d given him exactly what he wanted and it left him shaking as he entered her. She called out immediately, keening and placing hard kisses along his arms, working her way to his shoulders. He thrust and moaned just as loud as she, claiming her over and over again with every stroke. It was glorious. Heat surrounded him everywhere. She licked him. She bit him. She used her hands and mouth in anyway she could, anywhere she could. Rolling her over, he kept himself tucked inside her to let her ride him through to the end. He wanted to watch his wife fall apart. He drew his knees up behind her, giving her back support and his body more leverage to continue pushing up into her core that gripped him like sheets of fiery silk. 

 

He bucked and she rutted, his fingers roaming through her slick folds to find her swollen bud. His thumb pressed against it and for a second time that night she smacked at his hands until he moved them, puzzled. And then he lost himself to pure madness as he beheld the sight of her touching herself. His cock surged within in her, pumping his seed into her waiting heat. He shouted his passion and whimpered his love. She followed close behind him, using his thickness and her fingers to find release. When she finally collapsed on his chest, he kissed her hair, holding her over his heart. 

 

“I love you,” he said in earnest. 

 

“And I love my husband, as well,” she replied. 

 

He’d been wrong. So very wrong. Killing wasn’t the sweetest thing after all.


	20. Chapter 20

Married life agreed with him in a surprising way. Weeks turned into months without him taking much note of them. There was a peace unlike anything he had ever known in his life. It settled around him, embracing him in calm and quiet. It was hard to feel lonely when she put her arms around him. He didn’t feel much like a dog when she told him he was loved and kissed his brow. His days were busy with work, as were hers, but the spaces in between were spent together. He found evening and morning to be some of his favorite time in her presence. Never would he be able to explain to her the feeling that nearly brought him to his knees every time he opened his door to find her waiting. When his eyes opened in the morning, she was there, tangled up, naked in his arms and the furs. It wasn’t a cruel fantasy brought on by despair and too much wine. It was real and it was perfect. 

 

The day after they’d been married he had helped her gather her things from the woman’s house. Together, they had placed her items around his hut. One trunk at the foot of the bed became two. They tried to make it three but she had yet to show any signs of bearing them a child. He didn’t mind. He knew children would come soon enough. He enjoyed the time he had her all to himself. He didn’t have any experience with little ones but he knew they required large amounts of attention. There’d be no nursemaids here on the Isle to take the child off their hands. Well, there was Alva, he chuckled to himself. They might have to steal back their firstborn from the old woman if they let her sit with the child. 

 

He didn’t know if he’d make a good father. Idla assured him he would and he figured he couldn’t do any worse than his own had. If uncertainty claimed him when he became a father, he knew Idla would help guide him. 

 

Some days were harder than others. There were times when he faltered. She kept at him relentlessly though. He would stumble into old habits of self doubt and she would pick him up out of the pit he created. He’d been starved, he came to realize. All his life he’d been hungry for the bond they’d created. She provided for him. But instead of a table overflowing with dishes, she gave him words. True, stunning, handsome, beautiful, strong, treasure, love, husband. He tore into them all just as surely as he would a banquet. It never stopped. As soon as he’d taken in what was placed in front of him, she would give him more. At times, her persistence overtook him, like the time she’d washed his hair, and he couldn’t help but weep. And even then she never ceased, wiping at his face and telling him he was safe within her heart. The tendrils of grace were within his grasp.

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

They were lying inside of that tranquil period after they’d satisfied each other fully. She was usually bubbling with energy and talkative after, while he did his best to stay awake. Sometimes she let him be. She would stroke at his hair or chest and hum at him until he slipped off into dreams that rarely held unpleasantness for him anymore. Tonight was not one of those times. She was picking at his beard and grinning like a mad woman. 

 

“What’re you doing?” he finally asked. 

 

“You’ve got gray in your beard,” she giggled. “Just a few hairs. I like them.” 

 

She was odd, he thought, but in a very good way. If she was amused then he was as well. 

 

“How old are you?” she asked with a teasing tone. “Did I marry myself off to an elderly man?”

 

He gave the familiar shrug and grunt he had for questions he didn’t like or didn’t know the answer to. Honestly, he had no idea. 

 

“Forty, might be?” he sighed. “Could be more. Could be less. Don’t know anymore.” 

 

“How do you not know?” she chided. “All you’ve got to do is count every name day.”

 

“Don’t remember my name day. Sometime near the start of the year, I think,” he confessed. 

 

He felt shame in the answer. He knew it was something of importance but it had been lost to him during his life. With no one to take note of it or share in it with him, his name day had cheapened in value over the years. He could remember his mother making him shortbread once, and letting him eat all he wanted until he had felt ill. His father had given him a knife before the flames had burned their relationship. That was all he knew of name days. Idla bolted upright, looking at him with concern. 

 

“You don’t know your name day?” she repeated. He shook his head. 

 

“No one to pay any attention to it after my sister died. Didn’t like being reminded every year so I stopped too,” he explained. 

 

He gave her another shrug and saw her lips quiver. Seven buggering Hells. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. She hovered above him; her hair falling in curtains around his face. She had a grave look in her eyes. 

 

“That’s not right,” she insisted. “Not right at all. A person needs a day all to themselves. A day to remember how special they are. You say it’s near the start of the year?” 

 

He swallowed and nodded. She was waging a war for him once again. If ever the Hound dared to come sniffing around, she promptly sent it on its way. 

 

“That’s next month. We’ll make it the first of the year, alright? And we’ll start at forty. No more not having a name day. That stops now. Men keep track of their years,” she all but ordered him while she placed gentle little nips along his jaw. 

 

The Hound relented and slunk back off into the shadows. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She watched him from her place in the bath. Sunk low in the tub, on her knees, the water came up to her nose. She’d piled her hair on top of her head to keep it from getting soaked. He’d taken to escorting her while she bathed since before they had been wed. He never joined her, but he forcefully insisted she not bathe without him present. It really wasn’t necessary anymore. Everyone had learned her preferred time to wash. The women weren’t going to dare disrobe in front of Sandor and the first few men that had tried to bathe at the same time as her had quickly been shoved out of the room. Those few men spread the word like wildfire that Sandor Clegane was not a man willing to share his wife for any reason. She could admit to finding comfort in his watch but it was also odd to be fussed over so. He would observe her while she undressed, but then sit on a bench and pick at his hands or watch the door. It was probably a familiar feeling to him, standing guard over someone; however, it wasn’t something she was used to. There was a secret thrill to being held in such high regard. But he really ought to come in with her. There was no sense in him not using the time to bathe as well. 

 

“Come join me,” she sputtered, lifting her chin up out of the water. He smiled her way and chuckled. 

 

“I do that, there’ll be more than washing going on,” he growled at her. 

 

He had her attention now. Did he wish to have her in the bath? Well, why not, she asked herself. They were wed now. If anyone were to happen upon them, which was unlikely, they would only witness a married couple doing as they were meant to. She felt bold and brazen, like the time he’d had her in the stables. The chance at being caught loving him made the act seem all the more exciting. 

 

“I didn’t say anything about bathing,” she alluded, giving him a sultry look. She saw his tongue work its way over his teeth. He was debating. Usually he was the leader, the aggressor, in their couplings. She followed his desires wherever it took them. But these times when she could switch their roles and be the one taunting him into submission? To speak as he would; she fucking adored them. 

 

She stood up out of the water, letting it stream down her body in tiny rivulets. Drawing her finger tips up past her ribs and onto her breasts, she massaged them in a tantalizingly slow manner. Pinching at her nipples, she sighed for him and cheered internally when he flung himself off of his bench. He rooted through her pile of clothing on the floor, vigorously tossing bits of fabric aside. Finding the belt that normally held her robe shut, he stalked over to the door. He bound the handles together with the cord of her robe and began tearing his clothing off as he made his way back to her. She grinned at his cleverness. It may not stop someone from entering entirely, but it would slow them down. 

 

Waves of water splashed out of the tub when he crashed down into it. He tried to capture her in his arms, but she shrieked and moved away. There was just enough room for her small frame to tread water and duck out of grasp every time he brought his hands near her. She circled him, laughing in delight while he scowled at her and tried to hide his own smiles at her behavior. Finally, he had her cornered and she could only shiver in anticipation. He braced his palms against the stone floor around her head; creating a barrier she had no chance of escaping.

 

She wasn’t about to let him win though. He’d been the one to suggest, but she’d be the one to bring his fantasy to fruition. Moving a hand through the water she found him, tugging on his rigid length. He liked a strong grip; as firm as her tiny hands could manage, squeezing around the base, followed by a few quick passes over the head. The pattern repeated and he was soon shuddering while he chewed at her ear. Licking, and gnawing at a nipple, she used one hand to cup him while the other continued to stroke him. His hands gripped until his knuckles were white at the rim of the tub around them. He was letting her have her way with him, gasping and breathing harshly above her. 

 

“Fuck, woman,” he grunted and bucked into her hand. The action was followed by a hushed, “Please”.

 

Her smile grew at his words. She would never tire of pleasing him. They’d known each other nearly a year now; they’d been together for six moons. She’d watched him suffer through physical pain, sadness, anger and self loathing. It had taken time, trust and many deeds to earn his love, but it had been worth it. The man that trembled in her hand was God like to her. He was flawed yet sublime. She’d never known anything as pure as the love they shared. His happiness became her happiness and she would die for him if that’s what it took to keep him safe and whole. 

 

Pushing on his chest, she guided him to sit on the seat in the bath. The last time she’d had her arms around him in this position, he’d been lost in shocked confusion over being treated gently. She didn’t plan on being gentle at all with him now. Her body was aching to be filled with his as she scrambled up onto his lap. His hands found her breasts and she let him caress them for a few moments before she removed them. He snarled at her. 

 

“Trust me,” she breathed while stretching his arms out to the sides of the tub again. She squeezed his hands, bidding him to use the cool stone as purchase for his lust. She teased him, licking water from his skin and rubbing at her folds with his cock. The feeling was rich and delicious. Even in the warmth of the bath she could feel the different heat of him. He was hot, like fire, against her nub. He surged and throbbed beneath her. When she found his lips he suckled hard, taking in gulps of air and pleading with her again to grant him release. 

 

The water allowed her to float and bob along his length without putting any strain at all on her legs. Her breasts bounced in the water, the hardened nipples skimming over the hair on his chest. It caused her to call out his name. Writhing against him she felt the familiar, tight coils of release beginning to blossom in her belly. 

 

“Do it,” he begged, “take your pleasure. Give me mine!” 

 

She took him in all the way to the hilt. It was easy to do so while in his lap. They both cried out and cursed in unison, each beyond ready to find their peak. It was very much like the time in the stables, she thought, through her haze of bliss. It was feral and fueled by nothing but need for one another. Twisting in his lap she felt the muscles beneath her, hard and thrilling like thunder. His face was a mask of agonized pleasure, but she felt softness at the corners of his eyes with her fingertips. He obeyed her and never let his hands fall from the tub, only gritted his teeth and waited for her to lead him into rapture. She found it first, shouting out her names for him while she did so. 

 

“Love, sweet, dearest, my strong one,” all tumbled from her mouth as she continued to ride him. 

 

She watched his head arch back, while he roared. There was a deep pulsing inside her while he spilled that made her walls continue to tremble and clench. He snorted and shook violently as he continued to endure the waves of his ecstasy. He pitched forward, crashing his head into her chest and moaned. They held each other tight and silently, while tiny spasms kept jerking through both of them. 

 

“Fuck the Maiden,” he breathed into her skin. She couldn’t help but laugh. She’d done well if he’d resorted to cursing the Gods to express himself. 

 

“Not a maiden,” she teased, using his old words on him, “No green girl could ever do that.” 

 

He hummed his approval and she bit into his ear. 

 

“But I’m fairly certain I just fucked the Warrior.” 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She’d been dicing dandelion roots when a sharp pain lanced its way through her lower stomach. It was sudden and fierce but went away quickly so she shook her head and carried on. A few minutes later another one took her. And again another. They were like the cramps of her moonblood but worse. More intense. 

 

“No, no, no, no, no,” she started to fret out loud. Maester Ulchard gave her an alarmed look as she slammed down her knife and took off to his room. She bolted the door and rammed a hand down her small clothes. It came back out red with blood. 

 

Her hand shook as she started to cry. She’d missed three moon bloods. One or two was normal but she’d never missed three before. It should have happened a week ago. The idea of being a mother was just beginning to plant itself inside her. It was hard to tell with her irregular cycle; she could have been a several months along or only a few short weeks. Another two or three and she would have told Sandor. But now it was all lost before it had ever truly started. 

 

The Master was knocking at the door, concern in his voice as he asked if she was alright. She sniffed and asked for clean cloths. He did as she asked, pushing them through the crack in the door when she opened it several inches. She asked for a moment and tended to her womanly needs before opening the door to him again. The cramps were terrible by now. She sat, doubled over on his bed while she hissed through her teeth. 

 

“My blood is flowing,” she sobbed, without a hint of embarrassment. The Maester had tended enough women to know of their bodily functions in detail. “I think there was a babe!” 

 

The Maester’s eyes were heavy with sympathy. He started sorting through jars and bottles. Dripping a drop of this and dash of that into a cup he bid her to drink it.

 

“It will help with the pain,” he told her, while he kissed her hair. “I’m so sorry Idla. It is not an easy thing to bear.” 

 

Gulping down the liquid, she grimaced at the bitter taste. There was nothing to do but wait for it to take effect and continue on mourning for the child that never was. Maester Ulchard sat on the bed by her and put an arm around her. Whatever he had given her made her drowsy and she let her head fall on his shoulder. It was helping a bit though. The cramps became dull instead of razor sharp. He moved from the bed, and let her fall to the pillow. 

 

“Rest,” he told her. “I’ll take care of everything today.” 

 

Most of the day was spent fighting sleep and weeping. She didn’t want to dream. She was afraid of the face she would see. A tiny, pink face with gray eyes. She cursed at herself for hoping. The small squares of cloth in her small clothes had to be changed several times. She’d never bled like that before. 

 

In the afternoon the Maester brought her broth and bread. It was a struggle for her to keep it down. There was nausea and a dizzy feeling along with the cramps. But by early evening it was starting to pass. She now felt more like her regular self during a moonblood. She sighed and stood from the bed. It was time to face the world again. When she stepped out of the room, Maester Ulchard gave her a sad smile. 

 

“It is normal,” he explained, trying to help ease her despair, “the first few times it may not take. Your body is adjusting to what it’s now being asked to do. There will be others.” 

 

“I wanted this one,” she sniffed, wiping at her eyes. His words were true, though. She really needed to gain some sort of control. Sandor would be looking for her soon. And what in all the Gods names was she going to tell him? Should she tell him? He didn’t know, as she did, so if she remained quiet, it wasn’t a lie was it? Her stomach threatened to relieve itself of the small meal she’d had. She had the unsettling feeling that he would take the news even worse then she had. He didn’t pressure her for children but she knew he longed for them. He saw children with her as a chance at redemption for the failed family he had grown up with. 

 

“Do I tell him?” she asked of the Maester. The old man whistled through his teeth.

 

“Did he know you were with child?” he questioned. She shook her head in reply. “It is really not for me to say. You know him best. But I would think the man has had enough share of heartache in his life. If you can manage on your own perhaps that is best. If you need someone to grieve with I’m here. Alva would understand as well.”

 

“There will be others,” he said with stern emphasis, hugging her again. He gave her a smaller portion of the remedy he’d treated her with earlier to see her through the night. 

 

She wasn’t hungry so she went back to their hut to wait. Dog was there, for once, not at his master’s heel. She took comfort in the animal’s presence. Sitting on the floor, she pulled the dog into her lap, stroking its fur and letting him lick at her face. Sandor wasn’t long behind her. Her stomach clenched painfully when she heard him open the door. 

 

“There you are!” he exclaimed, smiling at her, “You weren’t in the great hall. The Maester keep you that busy today?”

 

She tried to smile back at him. There was no need to ruin his evening. But the smile turned into more of a grimace. He noticed, concern taking hold of his features as he looked at her still sprawled out on the floor, clutching at Dog. 

 

“You alright?” he asked. She straightened her spine and did her best to put light in her eyes. 

 

‘I’m fine,” she tried to reassure him. He wasn’t buying a word of it. 

 

“You’re not,” he scolded. “Said you wouldn’t lie to me.” 

 

“My moon blood came today is all. It was a bit . . . harsh,” she finished. He froze, looking at her. His eyes bore into her and she trembled. He knew! He paid far more attention to her then she gave him credit for at times. He’d taken note of the missed moon bloods just as she had. 

 

“I’m sorry!” she struggled to breath. Sobbing, she shook on the floor. She yelped in surprise as he scooped her up off the wooden beams and into his arms. He sat on the bed and cradled her in his lap. 

 

“What’s to be sorry for?” he asked, a bit of annoyance in his tone. “Didn’t do it on purpose did you?”

 

“No! Never,” she affirmed. 

 

“Then stop with sorry.” 

 

“You’re not angry?”

 

“Angry?” He pulled at her chin so he could see her eyes. His were shining with hurt and confusion. His face softened as he saw her distress.

 

“No, I’m not angry.” 

 

“I failed you,” she whimpered. 

 

“And how do you know it was you?” he argued. “Could have been me. I’m too rough with you.”

 

“You’re not!” she shouted adamantly. “That has nothing to do with it.”

 

“Not you. Not me. Not anyone,” he whispered into her ear. “Just what is.” 

 

He shifted around her, laying them both down. She nuzzled into his robes, trying to forget everything that had happened. His scent was soothing as was his hands in her hair. He was being more than understanding with her. Despite his misgivings she knew he was going to make an amazing father to their children one day. 

 

“We’ll try again?” he beseeched her. 

 

“Of course,” she nodded. “Neither one of us is any good at giving up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of their marriage I'm going with Sandor has been on the Isle for 6 months. This chapter covers the next 2 or 3 months in their marriage. So, add on the time with Arya and I'm estimating he's been away from King's Landing for 10 or 11 months. 
> 
> Still on tumblr! I love it! You can find me under "naturesinmyeye"


	21. Chapter 21

The task of digging graves became an easier burden to bear as the weeks rolled along. It became more a solemn duty rather than a shaming penance. He’d been at it all morning when the Elder Brother came running down the hill to him. The Brother was practically tripping over his own feet. He lifted a questioning eyebrow to the huffing man. 

 

“Put this on! Now!” the man shouted at him, throwing one of the scarves the novices wore at him. 

 

“What for?” he demanded. This was strange behavior from the Elder Brother; running, shouting and ordering. It wasn’t the man’s usual calm, reflective pace and somewhere in the back of his mind a small buzz of panic started. 

 

“Brienne of Tarth is on her way! Your giant!” the Elder Brother explained hurriedly. “Brother Merkel rode ahead to give warning but they’ll be here any minute. She’s got a squire with her. I don’t know her intentions yet. In the name of the Seven, will you put that on! I don’t want another fight between you two on my hands!”

 

Brienne of fucking Tarth! Wasn’t that his rotten luck? He quickly tied the scarf around the lower half of his face and pulled the hood of his robes up over his hair. Hopefully, they could avoid each other. If not, the disguise would hide his most prominent features. 

 

“I’ll try to keep her away. Just work as you normally would. Don’t bring attention to yourself. You’re a novice now. A silent novice. Understood?” the Brother instructed him. He nodded his head. The man was right. If he went around now trying to gather up Dog and Idla into his hut it may look odd. Better to hide out in the open. 

 

“Dog!” the Elder Brother called. Dog lifted his ears and gladly trotted after the robed man. If there was one person who could hold the canine’s interest as well as Sandor, it was the Elder Brother. 

 

He continued on at his task, fighting the urge to run back to his hut and grab his sword. The big bitch had taken what he had claimed before. Bad leg or not, he wasn’t going to let her do it a second. He did as he had been told though, facing away from the road, and shoveling in earth over a newly lain corpse. The Elder Brother had yet to give him poor advice. He would trust the man once more in this matter. 

 

There was the sound of boots and armor far off down the path. They’d taken the main road in. They would pass by him and there would be no stopping it. The Elder Brother’s voice rang out over the others. The man was trying hard to distract his guests, speaking about the main house and the crop fields; all objects in the opposite direction of himself. They were close now; nearly upon him. He could hear the large woman’s southern accent and her squire’s enthusiastic quips. Suddenly, almost of its own accord, his arm jerked and a shovelful of dirt went over his shoulder to land on the tall woman’s boots. He bit at his cheek to keep from laughing. He hadn’t been able to help himself. She deserved more than mud on her shoes but that small act would have to satisfy him. He was scolded, and he hung his head in mock shame. They had moved on and all seemed well. 

 

Then Dog broke from the group with a yip. Bounding up next to him, the beast leapt at his face and barked excitedly. Of course it would be the damned animal that would give him away! He scratched at Dog’s head, trying to settle him. Brienne seemed to look at the two of them queerly, but then shook her head and moved on. He let out a long held breath. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………….

 

He was fucking exhausted. Between dodging Brienne, tending to the horses, and digging three graves, he was well and truly done for. The third grave had to be dug an extra few feet deep as one of the corpses had shown signs of illness. It was best to bury it as far down into the ground as possible. He had managed a meal in the sick house. Idla had smuggled him a plate out of the kitchens so there would be less risk of him running into the large woman again. Once he had finished with the horses for the night he had lumbered back to their hut. He was too tired to even bathe, instead, stripping his clothes off and wiping at himself with a wet rag. It would have to do. His body was sore and he wanted to shut his eyes forever. Leaving his clothes piled on the floor, he collapsed, naked and belly down, onto the bed. 

 

He’d only just begun to doze off when he heard the door creak shut, followed by Idla’s light steps. Her weight tipped the pallet while she kneeled down next to him. 

 

“Long day?” her voice came softly into his ear. 

 

“Aye,” he grumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes. She knew what Brienne had done to him. She knew his struggle to keep this place of peace for himself. That, in addition to his physical toil, was no secret to her. He felt her weight leave the bed. There was the hushed rustle of fabric and clink of a bottle. He waited. If she offered he wouldn’t refuse her attentions. She seemed to always know what he needed but was too craven to ask for. It was a hard habit to break; not asking for what he wanted. 

 

Her hands grazed across his back, slick and warm with oil. He moaned immediately. Long, unhurried strokes made their way from his neck to his arse. She was fucking good at it; rubbing him down. Once again he was left in awe over such a simple act. He felt a fool whenever he recalled there had been a time when he had thought a wet, willing cunt was the greatest thing a woman could offer him. 

 

The slow touches turned into more focused kneading. She left not an inch of his back unattended to. It took time. Minutes? Hours? He didn’t know. He drifted in and out of a light sleep as she worked on his arms and legs. His body thrummed with ache from his responsibilities and the warm tingling of desire. She bent over him to scratch at his scalp and he could feel her nipples against his back. She’d stripped herself naked as well. He’d gone hard from just her fingers in his hair. His hips shifted up off the bed to accommodate his growing heat. If he wasn’t so damned tired he’d have taken her. 

 

Perhaps he could ask her to ride him? But that would require he actually use a few words, opening himself up to rejection. He knew in his heart she wouldn’t say no without good reason but it was still a frightening thought to leave himself vulnerable to anyone. Ah, but then her hands were at his sides, pressing him in that way he knew meant she wanted him to roll over. She knew him so well. 

 

He opened his eyes to find her smiling at him. She pushed again at him, this time at his inner thighs, making him part them so she could settle herself on her knees between his legs. Confusion held him for a few moments. How was she going to ride him like that? And then he hissed in pleasure as he saw her lower her head straight down to his cock. She’d never done that before! Her lips felt plump against the skin of his belly while she trailed kisses around his manhood. He almost wept. She wasn’t going to ask a thing of him other than to lie there. It had been so long since a woman had done this to him. At least when he had been sober enough to recall the act. But she wasn’t doing it to him; she was doing it for him. It was a difference that made his heart thud against his ribs as he struggled to push his weaker emotions aside. She’d never take him like this again if he started bawling! 

 

His eyes shut tightly when he felt her lips on him. She was shy at first, licking in tiny circles over him with just the tip of her tongue. Her panting breaths were warm on his skin. Using her hands to massage at his thighs, she took the head of him into her mouth, sucking a bit and humming thoughtfully. He bucked. He couldn’t help it. She giggled and tried to take more of him in. She managed half and when he felt her tongue swirl around him he nearly lost his seed. It had been so very long. 

 

He was a fucking writhing wreck within minutes. She’d placed her hands at the base of him, twisting and squeezing the way he liked. Her lips continued to work at him. His hands had found their way into her hair. He gripped at it; desperately wanting to hold a part of her while she brought him bliss. It was intense but he needed something more. It was so close to perfection. He trembled and called out her name urgently. There was a wet noise as he slipped from her mouth. She looked at him curiously, head cocked and eyes wide; like a little owl settled between his legs. He had to speak. He doubted she had much experience, if any, in this act and she would want to please him wouldn’t she? 

 

“Can you . . . “ he started, not sure how to phrase what he wanted. He didn’t wish to speak to her as he would a whore. “Like you do on my lip. Hard.” 

 

She grinned wickedly and nodded her head. He found himself quickly returned to the hot cradle of her mouth. And she did as he asked, sucking his hardness with enthusiastic force. Pressure built as her tongue continued to roll over him. He was near his end and he thrust to meet her lips, urging her to take more of him. She sucked him harder causing him to cry out. Pulling at her hair, he moved it out of the way so that he could watch her fulfill his lustful need. The sight of her fingers and mouth around him was all it took to shove him over the edge. He could hear his own voice, far away, keening with satisfying release. Some where distant in his mind he thought, perhaps he should have warned her. But she didn’t seem to mind. She’d given a startled yelp when he’d begun to spill, but kept her mouth on him. Her hard pulls became gentle suckles and then soft licks, until she shoved herself up off of him. He felt cared for in a way only she could provide. Using the back of her hand to wipe at the last trace of his seed near her mouth she gave him a smug smile. If it had been possible he would have spent himself all over again at the image. 

 

“Come here,” he rumbled, opening his arms to her. She happily complied, molding her body to his. With her head tucked under his chin, he breathed in deeply. He owed her so much. 

 

“Thank you,” he sighed. “Not just that. Everything.” He hoped it was enough to make her understand. 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………..

 

The sick house seemed his safest option the following day. The Elder Brother had made a brief stop at their hut in the morning explaining to them Brienne’s presence. To the North, Winterfell had been claimed by the Lady Sansa Stark. Something to do with an arranged marriage that had ended in death and blood. The Lady had risen above it all thanks to many that still remained loyal to House Tully and Stark. Brienne was on a mission to find anyone who would help rebuild the once mighty house. She planned on staying for several more days. The Brother suggested to him that he remain out of sight for the time being. Merkel and Pentnook could handle the horses. If any more dead bodies washed up they would deal with it when it occurred. 

 

His heart took up an accelerated pace in his chest when he heard Sansa’s name. The Little Bird was free? Free and safe? He wanted to ask a hundred more questions of the man but the Brother sprinted from the shack just as quickly as he had arrived. He was left with a still pounding heart and a giddy, queasy feeling in his stomach. Eventually, he had ended up with Idla in the sick house, pacing nervously. 

 

“Here,” Idla told him, passing him a huge mortal and pestle filled with seeds. She could see his need to busy himself. “Crush those into a fine powder.” 

 

He’d barely begun at his chore when there was a knock at the door. The Elder Brother stepped in, eyes wide with warning. Behind him Brienne entered the room. Thankfully, he had thought to keep the scarf on that the Elder Brother had given him yesterday. He kept his eyes and head down, concentrating on the bowl in front of him. If he stayed silent and calm he might find a chance to creep out of the room as they talked. 

 

“Err, um,” the Elder Brother stammered, “The Lady wishes to speak to our healer about a possible placement at Winterfell. Perhaps, they should speak privately?” The last bit was addressed to him in a meaningful tone. He rolled his eyes. The man had no talent for subtlety that was for sure. But he nodded his head anyway, dropping the pestle and making his way to the door.

 

“You there!” Brienne called to him, stalking over the few feet to him. She stared right into his eyes. This was going to end badly. He knew it. She was just shy of being level with his eyes. There weren’t many men in Westeros who could claim that. Her eyes narrowed at him.

 

“Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice was full of knowledge. She knew damn well who he was and was testing him. He shook his head and tried to exit once again. He wasn’t going to be the one to start something this time around. He felt the scarf catch in her hand, before he could react, and then there was no use hiding anymore. 

 

She gasped, shouting, “I knew it!” He backed himself up to the wooden work surface, hands scrambling behind him onto the table, trying to find anything he could use to defend himself. His left hand found Idla’s knife and he clutched it tightly. Bienne’s hand went for her sword and the Elder Brother had started screaming at the both of them about how they were in a place of the Gods. But it was Idla that stepped between the two of them. 

 

“Enough! Both of you!” she shrieked. Her hands went up to block each one of them. It was insane, he thought, his wife planting herself between two towering warriors. But she wasn’t backing down, glaring at each on of them in turn. She turned her focus to Brienne, “Please, don’t. You wanted to speak to me. Let’s speak. He won’t do anything if you don’t. Please, he’s my husband.” 

 

Brienne’s eyebrows almost left her face, they had risen up so high. She snorted and took her hand from her sword. “The dog found a mate? Fancy that! I thought I’d killed you.” 

 

“Didn’t do a very good job,” he growled. He let his grip on the knife loosen but didn’t let it go entirely. 

 

“Please,” Idla bid the woman once again. She pointed at the door, silently asking Brienne to join her there. The larger woman nodded her head, following Idla out of the sick house. 

 

Idla felt herself begin to calm when the other woman had let her hand go from her sword. She had no idea what she had been thinking, coming between the two of them. It had been pure instinct to somehow try and protect Sandor. She was probably going to get a lecture later on about how stupid it had been of her but that really didn’t matter at the moment. He was safe for the time being and she had Brienne’s attention all to herself now. She would make the woman understand. Once they were settled outside the sick house, she was the first to speak. 

 

“We found him after the two of you had at each other. It was a long and painful process to heal him. He’s not the same man he was when he fist arrived,” she started, “There’s not much malice left in him. What happened in there was him trying to defend himself. And me. That wasn’t anger at you.” 

 

“I hardly know the man,” Brienne told her. “Only stories and rumors. And our run in near the Bloody Gate, of course. A terrible misunderstanding of loyalties, I suppose. He’s not easy to reason with.”

 

Idla gave the woman a fond, knowing smile. “No, he most certainly is not,” she agreed, remembering his first few months under her care. “What is it that you want from me though?”

 

“My Lady Stark has requested I search the lands for those who would serve under her. We are in need of either a Maester or a talented healer. The Elder Brother has many positive things to say about your work. I wish to offer you the position of Healer at Winterfell. Details would need to be discussed, but you would be provided for and allowed a small salary.” 

 

“And what of my husband?” Idla asked. 

 

“The Lady instructed me that any spouses or children were welcome. Although I hadn’t known it was him . . .” Brienne trailed off. “Perhaps a raven first?”

 

“There is still a bounty on him?” 

 

“Yes, but not much interest. Everyone assumes he’s dead. And the one who set the bounty no longer lives. Hard to collect money from a dead man.” 

 

Idla chewed at her lip. The idea of adventure had her interest. She’d never been as far North as Winterfell. “I need to discuss it with him. Send your raven but don’t use his name. If we decide to go, the Lady can make up her mind when we arrive. I swear to you he’s changed, for the better. He could be of use to your Lady.” 

 

Brienne gave her an odd look before answering, “Yes, I’m sure he could.” 

 

“I’ll discuss it with him this evening and give you an answer at the first meal tomorrow morning. There’s no sense in us not dining there anymore. Is that agreeable?” 

 

The large woman nodded her head and Idla continued, “You should speak with him. Make amends. He’ll grumble about it but it will mean something to him.” 

 

“I already told him once that I have no wish to kill him,” Brienne stated. The taller woman reached for the door handle but Idla stayed her hand. 

 

“Give me your sword,” she pleaded. “Trust me. If you walk in there without it, he’ll back off as well. If you don’t act a threat, if you reach out to him, he’ll start to trust you.” 

 

She nearly cried when the woman complied, unbuckling her sword and leaving it in her hands. “One last thing,” she told the woman, “Don’t call him dog. Please. He doesn’t deserve that title. His name is Sandor or Clegane, if you wish. Never call him dog.” 

 

“If he stabs me, I’ll have all of Winterfell down here at your door,” Brienne warned. 

 

Idla laughed and sent the woman over the threshold. She clicked the door shut behind the blonde woman and waited. There were raised voices at first. Shouts that sounded like, “insufferable ox”, “bad swordplay”, “stubborn wench” and “horseface”. It wasn’t all Sandor and it made her gain a bit of respect for the other woman. Brienne seemed able to hold her own when dealing with him. The voices grew softer after a few minutes. She sat and picked at the handle of the sword while she continued her vigil. Soon, the door opened and Brienne, Sandor and the Elder Brother all poured forth from the sick house. Sandor offered his hand to her.

 

“We’re getting food,” he announced, “You coming?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not trying to beg for reviews. I've just has a shitty afternoon and if you're enjoying this I would love to hear from you. Thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

They had been on the road for almost two weeks. The gates of Winterfell would be within their sight by nightfall. Idla had been so full of life when she spoke of traveling to, what was in her mind, a far off land. She had always dreamed of being her own master. The healing arts were her calling and she no longer needed the Maester Ulchard’s guidance. It was time for her to branch out on her own and who was he to stop her? How could he have ever explained to her that at one time he had loved her potential employer? He had tried once but his voice had caught in his throat. His tongue grew thick and the words never came. He’d give her the world, even if it meant he would suffer for it. Something told him that the way to keep his wife’s affections was to remain silent on his opinions of other women. He’d just have to face the damnation or salvation of the two important women in his life interacting when it occurred. 

 

So he found himself at her side while she attempted to flesh out a new life for the two of them. They took to the road with Brienne and her squire Podrick. Brother Harper had come as well, as he was decent with a sword. Brother Merkel knew the Northern paths well and had been leading them down rarely traveled roads the entire way.

 

Traveling seemed to take a terrible toll on Idla. She didn’t sleep well at night and had no interest in food. Most of the time she sat side saddle in front of him on Stranger, clutching at his armor and shifting in and out of restless slumber. He’d given up on his robes for the journey, switching over to his gray armor and long sword should they happen upon danger. He pushed the group hard every day to get Idla to Winterfell faster. He felt sure if she had a roof and good food he would see a change in her. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

The horses had been taken from them to be stabled. They were given a meal while they waited for Lady Stark to see them. Idla pushed her food around on her plate, hardly touching the meal. She usually had a hearty appetite and this change in her had him worried. He didn’t finish all of his food either but at least he had an excuse. His stomach was a simmering cauldron of nerves. Would Sansa find delight in seeing him? Or pain? Would she take that anger out on Idla, revoking her offer? He didn’t want his wife to endure any burdens for his past misdeeds. 

 

Brienne came to fetch the two of them after they were finished with their meal. They were led back through several hallways into a dimly lit room. And there she was; the Little Bird, perched high and mighty at a low table; still the only color among the dulled blues and grays of Winterfell. Her smile was genuine and she leapt out of her seat when she saw him. She rushed up to the both of them. 

 

“It is you!” she cried, while taking one of his hands. He thought on how he would have killed in the past to have her touch him with such ease. “Brienne said she had brought you along but I hardly dared to believe her! I thought you’d died.” 

 

“And you’ve a wife!” she exclaimed, turning and taking up both of Idla’s hands. She was so happy. He was thrilled at her happiness. That’s truly all he had ever wanted for her. Idla was doing her best to keep up but he could see wariness in her eyes. Her tone was calm but there was fire hiding behind her curtsies. 

 

“Indeed, my Lady,” Idla began, “I couldn’t have made it here without my husband by my side. I didn’t realize the two of you already knew one another and were such good friends.” That last part was directed at him. He had fucked up. Well, he was going to either way. There was no way to avoid it once she had made up her mind to come here. 

 

“Friends? Oh, yes. Well, something like that anyway,” Sansa laughed. He begged her silently to shut up. She was making it worse! Sansa stopped her merriment when she saw the look in Idla’s eyes. Her eyes darted between Idla and himself. “Did he not tell you of me?” she said sadly. “I thought he would have. I’m sorry. Perhaps it is not my place. Your husband should speak to you about it if that is his wish. Shall we sit?” 

 

She gestured to the table. She was all duty and business with them now. He was sad to see the Little Bird fly away. Before any of them could sit though, a door at the back of the room opened. A tussled, tired looking woman was bouncing a screaming infant in her arms. 

 

“My Lady, I’m sorry. He just won’t settle for me. He likes his mother best before bed. I know you have guests but he’s so distressed . . . ,” the woman explained while she tried to curtsy with the flailing baby.

 

“Of course, Lydia, bring him here,” Sansa reached for the babe and cooed at it. It whimpered for a moment but then made hushed noises back at her before stretching. Sansa hummed the first bars of the Mother’s Hymn while she rocked the babe. It hit him hard. It was a breathtaking sight. His Little Bird was a mother! He’d never seen her as joyous as she was now, smiling down at the half asleep child in her arms. 

 

“Little Bird,” he breathed, “you’ve a nestling?” 

 

Her face was pure radiance when she looked up at him. She stepped closer to him so he could see the face of her child. “Yes,” she told him. “This is Eddard. He’s a few months along. There was at least one good thing to come from my second marriage. His father didn’t survive but he did. You would have liked his father. He was good to me. You would have approved.” 

 

He was speechless. Idla stood to the side motionless and silent. Her stance was firm and for the first time he couldn’t read her eyes. She had shut herself down to him. He immediately took a large step back from Sansa. He’d gone too far and there would be hell to pay for it later. He’d make it up to Idla. They would have a bed soon. He’d love her until she forgot all about this meeting.

 

Sansa had noticed the coldness that had crept into the room as well. “I think it’s best that I tend to him now. Brienne will show you all to your quarters. Everyone should rest this evening. We can talk more in the morning.” 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

She felt the dip of the pallet as his body sank down next to hers. He’d gone for a walk around the grounds and she had taken to bed early to avoid him. The edge of the mattress is where she had placed herself, her back to him. There wasn’t much room, especially with his substantial frame taking up at least half of it, and she lay cramped within the small bed. There was effort involved, but she managed to put as much space as she could between his body and hers. She had thought it would be an exciting adventure, coming to Winterfell. A chance to start a new life with her husband. And then she’d seen the look he gave Lady Stark. It made a chill run down her spine, while her blood boiled. He looked at Sansa like her looked at her. Not in lust but not as a mere friend either. There was love in his glance when he’d seen the babe in Sansa’s arms. And that was worse than knowing he might find the Lady attractive. It made her furious that he would look upon another woman that way. She wanted to burst into tears when she thought of how she had yet to give him a child. 

 

He placed his hand on her hip and she quickly shoved it off. He was more aggressive, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her tight against him. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. She didn’t want him to touch her now. She wanted to be angry and stay that way. 

 

“The fuck?” he barked. It was the first time she’d ever spurned his advances. She’d angered him. Good. Now he felt as rejected as she did. 

 

“I don’t want to,” she grumbled. 

 

She’d presumed he would curse up a storm; yell at her, or worse. Instead, he removed his hands from her body and moved swiftly away from her. There was a raw edge of hurt in his voice when he spoke. 

 

“Why not?” he rasped. 

 

“I just don’t,” she snapped. Was that her voice? Had she really just turned on him after he had respected her wishes? What was wrong with her lately? Gods, she was tired. She’d been exhausted since they had started this doomed journey and she only wanted to sleep. Her jealousy and bitterness left her drained. She’d rather tell him no then give him a false performance. He rose from the bed and began lighting candles around the room. 

 

“I want to sleep. I don’t want to do this!” she shouted. 

 

“Fuck that! You’ll talk now,” he ordered. “You don’t want to lay with me? Fine. But you’ll tell me why.” 

 

He was glaring at her, arms crossed over his bare chest. He wanted her to speak? She’d let him have it then. Clambering up off the bed, she stood as near face to face with him as was possible. 

 

“What is she to you?” she badgered. 

 

There was a look of shock in his eyes. She’d been right. She’d caught him red handed. 

 

“Lady Stark. Sansa. What is she to you?” she pried. He still had no answer. His eyes were clouded with genuine fear. 

 

“You were at King’s Landing?” she pressed. He only nodded in reply. They both already knew the answer to that question. 

 

“Before the marriage of the Imp and the Wolf?” She’d heard stories around the trading towns. Tales of the red headed Stark girl being labeled a traitor’s daughter and being held as little more than a prisoner at the Red Keep. The arrangement had lead to an eventual marriage to one of the Lannisters. Sandor had already confessed to being at King’s Landing before he tumbled into her life. 

 

“Aye.” His voice was small. He was looking at the floor which she knew was a sign of guilt on his part. 

 

“So you were there the same time as her?” 

 

Another small nod of his head. 

 

“What is she to you? You should have seen the look on your face when you saw her child. You will answer me!” she shouted. She’d had enough of his avoidance. His clenched fists changed into hands placed openly between them. He looked helpless. His eyes held so much but he had no words to give her. 

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. 

 

“Try very hard,” she seethed. 

 

His voice had volume but it wavered as he spoke. “She reminded me of my sister. After that . . . I don’t know. I was so angry back then, Idla. Had nothing but hate for myself and rage for everyone else. She was the only bright thing I had. They abused her and I wanted to protect her. And then . . “

 

“And then what?” She felt the heat of on coming tears. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer to her question.

 

“Were you lovers?” she dared to question, one tear making its escape. He shook his head. 

 

“No, I wouldn’t have brought you here if that were true. Told you there were only whores before. I haven’t lied to you.”

 

“But you did love her? You still do?”

 

“Have you never felt something for anyone other then me?” he started. There was more anger in his voice now. “Your brothers? Your father?”

 

“They’re my family. That’s not the same.”

 

“Your Maester or the little lads then? Your fucking farmer’s boy? At least you had someone before me who wanted you. Didn’t have to pay for it, did you?” he sneered. 

 

He wasn’t apologetic anymore. He was as upset as she. He wasn’t allowed to be upset, she thought. This was her problem with him and he had no right getting angry at her over it. He had done wrong, not her. 

 

“You’ve a name for her!” she yelled and at his confused look added, “’little bird,’ I heard you say it!”

 

“So?”

 

She fell down into a chair. She’d tried so very hard not to weep but it had happened all the same. “You don’t have a name for me!” she wailed. 

 

She knew she was being childish but she couldn’t help herself. Of course it was unreasonable of her to assume he couldn’t hold anyone else in his heart besides her. He hadn’t done wrong. Not really. He was a human being with feelings just like everyone else. But she didn’t like having the impression that she was second best. He was in front of her, kneeling and shaking her shoulders. 

 

“The hell to that!” he bellowed. “You forget your vows already? My vows? I call you wife! Not any name in all of Westeros more important than that.”

 

She wasn’t winning anymore. He’d turned the tables on her, placing guilt in her hands. She kept on weeping, though she hardly knew why. Everything seemed so serious now a days. She shed tears at the slightest disturbance. 

 

“What name do you want?” he asked in concern when her tears didn’t cease. She rubbed at her face, but more tears replaced the ones she wiped away. They wouldn’t stop!

 

“My heart, my life, my love. What else can I give you?” he desperately begged of her. There were tears gathering in his eyes as well. 

 

“I don’t understand, Idla,” he choked. “What’ve I done? You haven’t been you. You’re sullen and you snap at everyone. I try to touch you and you shove me away! I want to fix it but you’ve got to tell me how.”

 

There was a moment that stretched on forever in her mind. One breath became years. He was right. She’d been in a horrible mood for weeks. It had crept up on her before they had started the trek to Winterfell and had only gotten worse with each passing day. She had little energy through out the day, the smell of food left her gagging and the last time they had made love her breasts had been so sore she’d had to remove his hands from her. She started counting back through the weeks. 

 

She’d missed a moonblood. No, that wasn’t right. She’d missed two! It should have come two weeks ago but she’d been so caught up in traveling she’d stopped paying attention. She let out a startled squeak and grabbed his face.

 

“I’m sorry!” she cried, “I’m so sorry. You’re right. I’ve been a wretch to everyone but I have very good reason.” 

 

She kissed him fast on the lips. He didn’t respond. He probably thought she was daft. He had better get used to it. She would be acting oddly for months. She only beamed at his puzzled look and moved his hands to rest on her belly. It took him a moment, but then she saw the light of comprehension in his eyes as he stared at her stomach. 

 

“You sure?” he whispered, glancing up at her and then back down to his hands still upon her. 

 

“It seems right,” she reassured him, stroking his face. “I’ve missed two moonbloods and the other signs are there.” 

He let out a sound that was part surprised gasp and also a sob, lowering his head into her lap. Borrowing his face into the cloth of her night gown, he wound his arms around her. He trembled as she leaned over to wrap herself around him as well. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” she told him earnestly. And she was. Deeply so, for having mistreated him in such a callous manner. “It was wrong of me to question your love. I’ll try to watch my tongue, but you’ll have to be patient with me. Your son is going to make me ill tempered some days.” 

 

She heard him laugh into her belly. It was a soft chuckle, wet with tears. “You don’t know it’s a boy,” he scolded. 

 

“I do,” she said firmly. “I promised you a son first.” 

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

He found Lady Stark in the early morning hours. The opportunity to ask for a moment of her time in private never occurred. She beat him to it, smiling and bidding him to follow her. She led him to a small room with a table, a few chairs and a wooden wardrobe. He took a seat when it was offered to him and watched as she went to the large wardrobe towards the back of the room. A small, flat wooden box came out of the wardrobe. She sat at the opposite end of the table, letting her fingertips drift over the lacquered wood as she spoke. 

 

“I had time to think last night,” she began, “If Idla should choose to stay here in my service, then of course her husband will need to remain at her side. I have Breinne for protection but my son does not yet have a sworn shield.” 

 

His eyes grew wide with alarm as he sucked in a breath. He hadn’t expected this to transpire. Idla and he had stayed up late into the night talking on the future of their family They had decided it was best to go back to the Quiet Isle. 

 

“I could do no better than to have both you and Brienne protect my family. Will you do this for me?” she asked. 

 

“Sansa . . .” he started. “I can’t.” She frowned at him. “I truly can not.” 

 

Standing, she opened the lid to the box and pushed it to his end of the table. He turned it around and gasped when he saw the contents. His cloak. His fucking Kingsguard cloak was folded neatly inside, still stained with dirt and blood. How in the Seven Hells had she managed to keep it?

 

“I remember the man who pulled me up off my back,” she said, her voice quiet, lost in memories. “I remember a man who cared when no one else did. I need that man on my side once more.” 

 

She was twisting a knife inside his heart. It wasn’t fair to bring up those times now. So much had occurred since then. And he had a child on the way, damn it all! He could no longer afford to put her first. She may have been the one to remind him that he was more than just a loyal beast, but Idla had shown him that Sandor Clegane was a man worthy of love. Sansa had taken note of his hesitation. She came up near his side and dug through the folds of the cloak, pulling out a tattered piece of paper. He recognized his drunken scrawl. Fuck! She’d kept that as well? 

 

“You can’t hold that against me!” he quickly hollered. “You can’t call in that debt! Not anymore.” 

 

“This says other wise,” she argued, holding up the yellowed note. 

 

“I was drunk, Sansa. Bottom of all the fucking cups in King’s Landing drunk and scared shitless. I cared for you. I still do but you can’t expect me to own up to the ramblings of a shit faced deserter. The Hound doesn’t take orders from highborns anymore.”

 

“If your wife chooses to stay will you make her leave?”

 

“It’s been decided, together, already. We’re going back.” 

 

“This is disappointing news.”

 

“She’s with child, Sansa,” he pleaded. “We only found out last night. I can’t keep her safe here. No where is a guarantee but the Isle’s the best chance we’ve got. Would you ask me to put the safety of your child above my own?”

“If you ever cared for me in return, please, let us go,” he continued. “Let me have this happiness.” 

 

There was a deafening, frightful stillness in the room. He thought, perhaps, there were tears in her eyes while she sighed and nodded at him. 

 

“Take your wife and child back home,” she told him, her voice both proud and sad. “I would never force my will upon you. But I will remember you. You and Idla will always have a home here if you should ever change your mind.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. There was truth in his answer. Another time, another life, perhaps he could have helped her. If things had gone much differently; if she had taken his offer that night long ago, he would have. But that was not the hand either one of them had been dealt. He didn’t wish any harm to befall her but it was no longer his place to make sure that never happened. Idla was his light now. His duty was to her and their unborn child. He pushed the cloak and letter across the table to Sansa. She gave him a stern smile that also held a hint of warmth and shook her head. Taking up the cloak, she took a few steps towards him.

 

“Go in peace, Sandor Clegane,” she told him, placing the cloth back into his hands. “Give it to your sons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep! That’s all my lovlies. Just an epilogue left and I hope I haven’t lost anyone because the epilogue is probably the best part next to the first chapter. I have two magnificent little book ends for this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> I would like everyone to know that during the first few weeks of writing this story my full intent was to have Sandor and Idla stay with Sansa. But then . . . it didn’t fit the man I was developing. Believe me, leaving Sansa WAS NOT an easy decision for him. But if I’m going to stay true to my original intent, which was to show his transformation from Hound to Gravedigger to Sandor, then this is the way it had to be. This final chapter is him switching from the role of Gravedigger to Sandor, which was the entire point of the story. He has finally taken up his role as . . . well, himself. A husband, a father to be, the man he’s always wanted to be. The Hound would have died for Sansa no matter what the cost. Sandor understands she’ll always be important but there are other things in life besides her. I like this ending. The fact that they can admit to one another that, yes, there was something there, but that their lives have taken different paths; it’s the best ending I could give the two of them. They part on good terms with the door left wide open for future interactions. If you want Sansan action, go check out my other story, The Best Laid Plans. Just cuz I push an OC in this particular story doesn’t mean that I don’t harbor some hardcore Sansan feels as well. 
> 
>  
> 
> The note Sansa saved! Insert evil laughter here. You’ll just have to read my Mumford & Sons/Sandor Clegane self imposed challenge, which I’ll be working on next.


	23. Chapter 23

She woke in the predawn hours feeling restless and hot. By midmorning her cramps had started, and she sent Sandor for Hattie and Jocelyn. Today, hopefully, their babe would be born. He had kissed her hard on the forehead several times before racing out the door to find the requested women. She patted the bulge in her belly while she waited.

 

Her labor was far from easy but it was not as long and troublesome as others she had tended to. She paced the floor for several hours, breathing hard and gripping at the bed posts with every spasm from her stomach. Hattie and Jocelyn encouraged her. Sandor kept trying to come in the room and Jocelyn would firmly push on his chest, sending him back out the door. He was warned that it was women’s work and they would bolt the door on him if he didn’t stop. Every half an hour though he’d be back through the door. 

 

Towards the early evening things were moving steadily. She could no longer walk; instead, she lay in their bed on her side, clutching at her belly and moaning. It hurt. It hurt a lot and she wished for it to be over. Hattie took a look at her woman hood, pushing a few fingers inside and told her it would be soon. She cried. It felt like iron bands were squeezing the life out of her. Jocelyn tried to comfort her, wiping her face with a wet cloth and telling her it would be over soon and the babe she would hold would make it all worth while. 

 

By the time the baby was crowning and it was time to push, she was calling out in distress. She hadn’t thought the pain could get any worse but she was wrong. She was dying! The little thing inside her was going to kill her! She’d hack off Sandor’s manhood for this! She cried out in agony as another wave of pain took her and Sandor was immediately through the door. Jocelyn forced him out, bolting the door as had been threatened all day. She screamed and Sandor kicked in the door telling the women it would be their skulls next if they dared to throw him out again. 

 

He stormed over to her, pressing himself between the headboard and her back. Through the haze of labor she remembered a time when she had comforted him the same way. Long ago, in a tub full of warm water. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

He was mad with panic. There had never been a time in his life for him to become familiar with the birthing of babies. His sister had been born before he’d been old enough to make memories. He’d heard Queen Cercie wail out when Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were born. But that had been in passing when he had walked by her chamber on guard duty. That’s all he knew. 

 

When Idla had told him that his child would be born that day his heart had leapt with happiness. But as the day wore on, delight had turned to worry. Worry to fear. He sat on a bench outside the hut and listened to her. It was the most gut wrenching thing he’d ever had to endure. She was in pain and there wasn’t a thing he could do for her. He tried to go in and comfort her, but the women kept sending him away, saying he wasn’t needed. Maester Ulchard and the Elder Brother had come to sit with him. They had each tried to get him to leave the bench for a meal or a lap around the horse fields, but he declined. After a time each man had left him, an uncomfortable look on their face. 

 

Near dusk he heard her urgently cry out. He knew that kind of pain. He’d felt it as a child. He had felt it when they placed his bone back inside his body. He tried once more to enter the room, and Jocelyn’s tiny figure shoved him out. He heard the bolt slip into place behind him. And then he heard her scream! Fuck their women’s business! He was not going to make her suffer through this alone. When he had screamed she had held his hand. He would do the same for her. 

 

Kicking the door in, he cursed and yelled at the two make shift midwives. He’d had enough of them. He climbed into the bed behind Idla. He brought his legs to her sides and pressed his hands to her belly, feeling the muscles that struggled to bring their babe into the world. Putting his head to her back he listened to her gasping breathes. He’d never prayed a day in his life but he did so now. Let it stop, he asked whoever would listen, please, let it stop. 

 

She twisted the fabric of his breeches into her hands while she grunted and pushed. Hattie kept hollering for her to push harder. He glanced over her shoulder and saw a little head peeking out from between her legs. Then, suddenly, she gave out one last scream and the babe slipped from her body like it had been greased. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and collapsed back onto his chest. 

 

Hattie held the little one up by its feet. It was purple and blue. Why was it blue? Babies were supposed to be pink weren’t they? His heart lurched. The baby was still and covered in a white, slimy muck. Hattie slapped the babe two, three times on the back and he almost let Idla go to tear out the old woman’s eyes for striking his child. But he heard a tiny sputter, a gasp and a wet garble. And then harsh, jarring cries filled the room. Jocelyn smiled warmly at him while she busied herself with wrapping a blanket around the squalling baby. Hattie fished around in the bundle and used a sharp knife to cut the cord that connected mother to child. Joyceln wrapped the little one tighter and set it on Idla’s chest.

 

“A boy,” Hattie told them both. Idla, it seemed, would always keep her promises. He stared at the child in shocked fascination. 

 

“Told you,” Idla said weakly. He kissed her hair and felt tears in his eyes. A good cry, she had told him often enough. He understood now. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Her elbow in his stomach woke him. He’d been nestled at her backside, warm and dreaming. Now, he was wide awake. 

 

“Mmmmmm, your son is wanting food again,” she mumbled into the bed clothes. She’d decided it was his turn to gather up the babe. He grumbled but rose anyway. It was hard, exhausting work dealing with infants but he found he didn’t mind the task. Not when he got to hold his happiness made flesh to his chest. He made his way to the cradle to fetch his son. He tried so very hard not to wake the boy’s sleeping twin but failed. The little girl started bawling just as hard as her brother. He quickly gave the boy over to Idla and ran back to the girl before she woke her older brother. He didn’t need all three of his children up at one time. 

 

Their family had expanded over the last four years. After little Sandor’s birth they had decided to wait before having more children. He hadn’t liked the idea of giving his first born his name but Idla had insisted. It was true and solid just like him, she had argued, and her son would carry the same noble name as his father whether he liked it or not. They called the young boy Sanyi for short to keep things easier. 

 

As winter pressed in after Sanyi’s birth, they had focused on keeping their new family safe through the winter. It was mercifully short, lasting only three years. The Queen of the South had made peace with the Queen of the North. Dragons and Wolves ruled the land. They had waited out the storm on the Quiet Isle. The weather was brutal and cold. Food was scarce but they had made it. When spring broke through they had, once again, burnt their store of moontea and fucked like the rabbits they saw in the fields until she swelled with child. Brother’s Pentnook, Merkel and Harper had helped him build a second room onto the hut so that Sanyi could have his own space. 

 

Three days ago, when her time had come again, Sandor refused to leave her at any point. He sent Sanyi off with Quintin and stood by his wife’s side while she pushed new life into the world once more. She surprised them all when, after a little girl slipped from her body, she screwed up her face in pain, panting that she wasn’t done and then birthed a second child. Twins! 

 

He was loath to admit it but he thought that perhaps he was even happier this time around then when his first had been born. His heart cracked and broke with love. It did so now as he scooped his little girl up into his arms. She had pale blue eyes and crop of black hair. Each of the boys had dusty brown hair like himself but they had Idla’s dark blue eyes. Sanyi’s hair had begun to curl. 

 

He shushed at the babe in his arms and rumbled in his chest. She settled immediately. The little one wasn’t hungry, but insisted on being held whenever she was awake. She seemed to like her father’s hands best. He could fit nearly all of her within them. He sat down next to Idla on the bed. 

 

“Landon alright?” he checked.

 

“Hungry as usual,” she huffed. The little one at her breast gulped and sighed with contentment. “He’s going to run me dry.”

 

He laughed and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Then I’ll put another babe in your belly to fill you out again.” 

 

She chuckled as well. Once Sanyi had been born she had asked him how many children he intended to have with her. 

 

“All of them,” was his reply. They were off to a good start with the twins. 

 

“She needs a name,” Idla pressed, “It isn’t right not giving a child a name on it’s birthing day.”

 

She was right. The girl was still nameless. Idla had named the boy after her favorite brother but she had left the chore of picking one for the girl to Sandor. She had suggested his sister’s name and he had said no. Looking at his sister’s eyes now set inside his daughter’s face was all the reminder he needed. He’d been through dozens of names in the past few days but none seemed right. He thought for a few minutes, breathing in and smelling Idla’s scent. It was one of the sharpest memories he could recall from those first few days they had been introduced to one another. 

 

“What’s your perfume?” he questioned. 

 

She looked at him confused. 

 

“The flower in your perfume,” he explained, “What’s it called?”

 

“Hyacinth,” she breathed. 

 

He grunted and kissed the hair of the girl in his arms. “That’ll do.” 

 

Landon had stopped suckling and now lay sleeping in his mother’s arms. He rose from the bed and gestured for Idla to place the boy in his arm. Carrying both babies, one inside each of the crooks in his elbows, he gently laid them both back down in the cradle. He crawled back into bed, pressed up against Idla’s back as he had been earlier. He was so grateful to her. For her love and patience. For the children she had given him. It was far more than he had ever thought possible. Six years ago he had wanted to die. Life was strange, he thought. He pulled her night shirt up, feeling one of her breasts that was far from drained, as she claimed it to be. 

 

“Sandor . . .” she moaned, but her tone also held a warning. 

 

“I know,” he soothed, “just want to touch you.” He knew it would still be several weeks before he could enter her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still enjoy the other parts of her body. 

 

He took his time, kissing the nape of her neck and licking up her spine. He pulled her flush against him and rubbed his swollen manhood into the dip in her lower back. He kneaded her arse and slipped a hand around to find her warm and wet. He groaned. This was the only part he hated about babies. He loved her nearly up to the day she gave birth but then he had to stop while her body mended. He flicked at her nub and she gasped. 

 

“Alright?” he asked.

 

“Oh, yes,” she hissed, “stay there.” 

 

He obeyed. It gave him a rush of manly pride every time he watched her come undone by his touch. His fingers swirled around her bud, circling and rubbing as he had learned through years of practice. She fell apart quivering, within minutes. She had been unable to find release for weeks, her body too wound up in preparation for labor. She found it now, he was certain, as she turned her head around and bit into his arm to keep from screaming and waking the children again. He gave her a few more soft strokes and kissed her temple. She sighed in bliss. 

 

He took to kneading one of her breasts again, using his other hand to pull at himself. She had filled out since the birth of their children. Her breasts and hips were larger and it drove him wild with lust. Everything about her screamed woman. He pumped himself harder, grunting into her shoulder. She turned around and batted his hands away. He almost cried with relief when he felt her push her body down the length of his. She took him in her mouth and he whimpered. It had only been perhaps a week since they had last coupled but Seven Hells, he needed her. He yearned to feel her loving him. He needed this while his children, proof of their love, slept under the same roof as him self. She sucked at him hard and he tried his best not to thrust too harshly when he spent himself. 

 

Satisfied and happy, he rolled over onto his back and let sleep take him. Idla curled up on his chest, listening to the sounds of her children and husband snoring. Soon, she joined them in slumber as well. 

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Their family continued to grow in their new home. Once Landon and Hyacinth were old enough they had decided to let someone else have a chance to find peace on the Quiet Isle. And so, they had moved on. Jocelyn, Quintin, Abigal and Audrey, the gentle couple’s newest babe, came with them. Hattie was too old to start at a new family so she followed as well to play nursemaid to all the babies. Brother Merkel had grown restless and wanted a chance at something larger than the Isle. He dropped his title and became Devon once again, hoping to find adventure and perhaps a wife. 

 

Clover was next to be born, two years after the twins arrived. Idla had placed a little girl in his arms once more and declared it his duty to name her. He was terrible at names and stuck to the flower theme. It seemed easiest. He remembered his sister sitting and twisting clover buds into crowns she would wear on her head and he knew what his second girl’s name would be. 

 

Clover’s sister, Lilac, was born just one year later. The memory of handing a spray of such flowers to his mother was the driving force behind her name. Idla’s body had wasted no time in giving him a small clutch of girls. Each of the two younger ones had their mother’s hair and eyes. With five children all under the age of ten he didn’t think that he had slept properly in ages. Idla tried to give him a rest once or twice a week but the little girls would never let their father sleep in for long. Once the morning meal was done, they would squeal and bounce on the bed until he would throw the pillows at them. It only made them giggle harder, which would bring the boys and soon he would be covered in a small army of children, beating him with anything soft on the bed to be had. He was always tired but he didn’t think that life could ever be better. 

 

They had thought themselves done with children. They still tried at every opportunity for another. But one year of trying turned to two, two to four and her moon blood became irregular like it had when she was younger. It seemed a shame to him to stop at only five but he was satisfied. And then one day, seven years after Lilac’s name day, Idla had mentioned feeling ill at the table. Later that night when he bit at her breast she pushed his face away while drawing in a hiss of pain and they both froze in their coupling. They laughed knowingly and he smoothed his hands over her belly, declaring that she had one more son to give him. She told him he couldn’t possibly know that and he kissed her until she believed him. 

 

Their last, a boy as he had predicted, turned out to be his not so secret favorite. He left the task of naming the child to Idla. She chose Royston, a name from someone she knew in her youth. Not anyone of importance. It was just a name she had always liked. Roy, as he was want to call the lad, had the gray eyes and the brown waves of his younger self. He watched his son grow from babe to child and from child to man. He saw himself had he not lost half his face to the coals. He loved the boy fiercely and did all that he could to see to his happiness. He treated all his children fairly and with love but Royston always ended up getting just a tiny bit more from him. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

He knew he shouldn’t be out hacking at logs to make a new cord of fire wood at his age. He never had mastered the art of sitting still. As best as he could guess he was near seventy five name days. The stress, both physical and emotional, that Idla had helped him to unburden in his forties had given him many years at her side. He was silver and wrinkled but she still smiled at him like it was their first year together. 

 

Idla sat nearby, coring and skinning apples. She teased him that she wouldn’t rub down his muscles that evening if he continued. If he ached it would be his fault entirely and she wouldn’t help him out of it. She’d gone partially gray as well, and there were lines around her eyes, but she would always be beautiful to him. He wished his body would keep up with his desires but he would take what it was still willing to give. It was better than nothing at all. 

 

There hadn’t been any of their children in the house for years. Sometimes they would visit, bringing their chosen partners and the grandchildren. He had a dozen of them now. Royston’s only child had just celebrated her first name day last month. Clover was due to have another babe again soon. There was a third Sandor somewhere in the lot of them. He had rolled his eyes in public and wept in private when they told him his white cloak had been cut to make swaddling blankets for the boy. 

 

Things were mostly quiet and still. He found he enjoyed it. There were many days and nights spent alone with his wife, looking back on all they had accomplished together. His heart had split open with pure, radiant, joy over and over again. It had all turned out alright in the end. He had sons that knew what it was like to have loyal brothers and pretty, intelligent daughters. Idla was loving, as always, and showed no signs of ill health. They had lost friends along the way but they had weathered through the sorrow together.

 

He picked up the axe once more and when he swung it over his head, the numbness he   
had felt creeping into it all morning sent a bolt of pain down into his chest so fierce he took to his knees. He gasped for breath as his hands hit the ground. That wasn’t right. Not right at all. It fucking hurt worse than the fire. He was on his back now. He couldn’t breathe. He choked and rasped as he felt his heart slowing. 

 

He saw Idla above him. Her mouth was moving but couldn’t make out her words. He was dying. He was sure. The blue eyes wouldn’t call him back this time. He saw her crying and desperately wanted to tell her it was alright. He’d had a good life. She had given it to him. She was strong and would learn to go on without him. The boys would take care of her. He felt the fabric of her dress in his hands. His vision was going but he still struggled to speak to her. 

 

“L-love you,” he managed, his last breath leaving him. He could feel her lips near his scarred ear. 

 

The world went dark. 

 

A strong woman’s voice told him that he was loved. There was someone singing. Far away. The Mother’s Hymn. He smelled horses and campfires. A little girl put a crown of flowers on his head and smiled at him. He felt his face. It was whole. A Dog barked. A boy held up his first snared rabbit proudly for him to see. He tasted sugared almonds and fruit filled pastries. The scent of a flower was all around him. A flower he couldn’t remember the name of. 

 

And then Sandor Clegane knew nothing at all. 

 

“Nothing isn’t better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing.” - Arya Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all I’ve got for now. I hope everyone got some good tears out of it. A full, complete, happy life. That’s my wish for Sandor. 
> 
>  
> 
> I am not opposed to writing a sequel if inspiration strikes. Right now I feel like a collection of missing scenes and one shots are probably more likely. I’m up for requests! You can private message me, comment or email me at naturesinmyeye(at)aol(dot)com. 
> 
>  
> 
> I’m on tumblr under naturesinmyeye where I make try to keep everyone updated on what I’m working on. Check back to this one in a month if you like. I’m going to do some editing and rewording to make it even better!


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